


like something out of shakespeare.

by austenns



Category: Miraculous Ladybug
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Humor, Everyone Needs A Hug, Healing, Identity Reveal, Jealousy, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Scars, Sharing a Bed, Sleepovers, Slow Burn, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-22
Updated: 2018-12-02
Packaged: 2019-07-15 06:58:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,438
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16057901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/austenns/pseuds/austenns
Summary: Chloé will always disapprove, but Adrien has a bad habit of picking at scabs. Marinette just wants toheal.( or: everything is still a little ruined when nino makes a new friend, brings back an old tradition, and expands an existing family. things still aren't easy, but hey. shakespeare would beproudof the drama. )





	1. we have seen better days.

**Author's Note:**

> maaaan, it's been forever since i posted on here. this is my first time posting in this fandom, too, so this is gonna be an adventure! i was going to wait a little more before posting this, but the new trailer got me excited, and a little impatient, oops :P but i'm going to make this quick bc no one wants to read a long opening note. **important things to know before reading:**
> 
> i. at the beginning, all of the main characters are twenty, so don't worry about anything underage. for the most part, the timeline is the same. all the same villains, mostly the same origin story, etc.
> 
> ii. ladybug and chat noir know each other, but marinette and adrien do not.
> 
> iii. no one in this story is a villain except for gabriel. some people get portrayed as villainous, but you have to realize that both adrien and marinette are in a bad place, so their views are a little skewed. people fuck up, they make mistakes, and that is a huge theme in this. _you fucked up, so now what do you do about it?_
> 
> iv. on that note, this probably doesn't need to be said, but i'll say it anyway. just because the main characters are upset with someone does not mean that person meant any harm, or that they were in the wrong at all.
> 
> v. a lot of terrible things are done in this story, especially by one of our protagonists. i don't use the 'unhealthy coping mechanisms' or 'unhealthy relationships' tag lightly, so beware of that. also, that slow burn? super slow, so don't get angry if they don't make out any time soon
> 
> anything else i need to say will be at the end, so... enjoy!

The bell above the bakery door makes this off sound whenever it rings.

A couple of months ago, an akuma blasted the door off its hinges, taking the bell with it. When Ladybug did her thing, and set the world back on its axis, the bell came with a few defects. It’s rusted metal now, and whenever it rings, it sounds like someone is tapping a spoon against a gong, or one of those hollow bell instruments that no one actually plays.

Long-time customers walk in, and their eyes pop out when they first hear the clunky sound instead of the usual chime. New customers glance at it weirdly, but think nothing of it.

Marinette hears it, and she flinches.

The crash of porcelain against the ground is unbearably loud; unfitting of the jovial atmosphere this sanctuary is known for. Her mother sighs. “Oh, _Marinette._ ” She does that a lot now. _Oh_ , **_Marinette_**. All sadness and just enough disappointment, even as her daughter bends down, fingers plucking shards of glass from the floor. “No, no—” Withering, wrinkled hands bat at Marinette’s. “I’ll sweep it up, sweetheart. Why don’t you go rest?”

She bites her tongue, hand curling into a first. That’s a thing now, too. Instead of laughter or reprimands, whenever Marinette makes a mistake, it’s _go get some rest_. “Mama—”

“Marinette.” In the loud, chaotic bakery, the only silence is between them. “Please.”

Something about that _stings._ Marinette stands, muttering an apology, and dips out of the room, pretending she doesn’t hear her mother’s sigh.

It’s easy, now. Pretending, that is.

* * *

“That is _hot_ , girl.”

Marinette doesn’t so much as jump when heavy arms drop onto her shoulder, looping loosely around her neck. She keeps her eyes on the paper before her, tilting her head to see it from another angle. “You think so?”

Alya hooks her chin over her shoulder, humming deep in her throat. “Duh. You’re amazing, Marinette.” With an infinitesimal shift of her head, her breath brushes against Marinette’s neck. The designer can feel the proud smile against her skin, and it makes her pause. She hesitates  not long enough to be noticeable, but long enough to _remember_  — then lifts her hand, her fingers brushing against the back of Alya’s hand. That gets her another hum. “Is it for you?” She asks, slurring the _is_ and _it_ , so it sounds a little like she’s saying _zit for you._

Marinette laughs, and it’s not at the misspoken word.

A sharp slap is delivered to her shoulder. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng!” Alya unravels herself from her best friend’s neck, and comes to stand in front of her, off to the side of the easel. She plants her hands on her cocked hips, leveling a glare at the other. “You would look amazing in that dress.”

“I never said that I wouldn’t, Alya.” The retort falls flat, because they both know she was thinking it. The mesh meant to cover the collarbone up to the neck, the material that cuts off before reaching the cover of her shoulders, the skirt that doesn’t go below the knee — it’s a masterpiece for someone else. Marinette tears her eyes away from it, meeting Alya’s heated gaze. “I was thinking of entering it in Gabriel Agreste’s spring line contest.”

They take it for what it is: an olive branch, and a change of subject.

Alya’s shoulders drop enough to let Marinette know that they’re on the same page. _Let’s not fight about this_ , they say. _Not now_. “You’re totally going to win.”

Her lips twitch at Alya’s easy confidence. As if there’s not a chance in the world Marinette can get anything other than first place; as if she’s never lost before. “I might have to alter it. It feels too formal.”

“Um, hello, have you _seen_ Gabriel’s stuff? Everything is formal.”

A giggle escapes her lips, and she twists the pencil between her fingers. “Not _this_ formal! Should I take out the mesh? Or make it a two-piece?”

“You’re asking the wrong person, Marinette.” Any tension between them is gone by the time Alya pulls up a chair to sit beside her. Marinette wishes it were always this easy. With her parents, with her other friends, with her professors. “Nathanaël has an eye for detail. Maybe ask him?”

She brushes off the suggestion with a wave of her hand. “Nath picks up on things he’s seen before. It's good for comics, but not so much for design.” She taps the pencil against her lips. “I can probably ask Penny when I go see Jagged this week. She usually has good ideas for this type of thing.” She leans forward, scrubbing the eraser against out-of-place lines. She redraws the portion of the skirt that was erased by accident, the line thicker, deeper, straighter than before.

“How’s that going, anyway?” Alya picks a pen up from the cluster, uncapping it. She starts drawing on the heel of her palm, the way teachers spent years warning them against doing. _You’ll get cancer,_ they used to say, as bored little girls scribbled on themselves and each other, making games out of markers, as an excuse to hold the hand of the person they liked. Simpler times. “Officially working with _Jagged Stone._ ”

“It doesn’t feel much different from when I was a kid. But considering it’s Jagged, I guess it’s exactly what you’d expect?” Nothing about the man screams _strictly professional and snobby._ He’s eccentric and easy-going, on and off camera, and that’s never changed. “It’s a wonder Penny hasn’t pulled her hair out yet.”

Alya laughs, picking up a different color pen. She sets the black one down, and continues her artwork. “Do you think the rumors are true, then? That they’re secretly married?” Marinette gives her a look. “What? I’m a _journalist_ , Marinette, I have to ask these questions!”

She shrugs, fond smile fitting naturally on her lips. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like they’re dating, and sometimes it feels like she’s babysitting him.”

“...So they’re married.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“ _Totally_ married.”

The two lock eyes, and burst into giggles. Their guffaws fill the room, and it’s a rare and beautiful sound these days. Marinette shakes her head, shoulders still trembling from laughter. “If they _were_ married, could you blame him? I would give anything to have someone fix my life and keep my ass in line.”

“ _Please_ , you can’t even handle your mother doing it.”

Her nose crinkles in disgust. “Yeah, it’s not as _fun_ when it’s your mother.”

“And you think it’d be more fun if it were your wife?”

“That goes without saying, Alya.”

“Oh, obviously.”

“ _Obviously_.”

* * *

The sun makes its round through the sky, its golden rays giving way to darkness after long. Marinette is still in the art studio, avoiding everything under the sun, and Alya is still there. Her hands are decorated with Sharpie’d-on hearts and rainbows and ice cream cones and smiley faces, the art trailing down to her wrist, her forearm. It stops before her elbows, but her sleeves have been rolled all the way up to avoid getting ink on them. After an hour or so, she stopped stalling, and started on the article for her journalism internship.

Marinette draws to the sound of her fingers tapping against her keyboard. Despite the hours that have passed, she’s only on her second design of the night. It’s a little frustrating, if she’s being honest. She was never this slow before. Designs take time, yes, but usually, she would have banged out at least four rough drafts by now. But she’s only on her second, and it’s probably because—

Her breath gets caught in her throat as her hand seizes, pencil clattering to the floor.

—of that.

She cradles her hand to her chest, and slams her eyes shut. She sucks in a breath —  _two, three, four_  — and lets it back out. The steady clicking of keys has given way to silence, and there’s something so humiliating about that. “Dammit,” she mutters, reaching down to pick up her pencil again.

Alya grabs it first, and holds it out to her. “Maybe you should take a break, Marinette.”

 _Maybe you should go get some rest._ She lets out a huff, taking the pencil back. “I don’t need a break, Alya, I’m fine.”

“You’ve been drawing non-stop since before I even got here,” her best friend points out evenly. “That was four hours ago. Your hand is cramping up, just like mine did _two_ hours ago.”

She’s right. Alya almost always is, especially when it comes to things like this, and Marinette is aware of that. But the tip of her pencil still meets the paper, scraping lightly against it in premeditated strokes. Alya’s sigh is another track on the playlist of disappointed sounds Marinette has heard lately.

The silence between them is no longer light and comfortable. It’s thick and suffocating, and neither of them do a damn thing to diffuse it. A venomous snake coils in Marinette’s stomach, laying waste to her insides, leaving guilt in her system with every bite. She clenches her pencil tightly, the pain in her hand inconsequential. “Alya—”

The door opens abruptly. Nino sticks his head into the room, and grins at the sight of them. “There you are! My two favorite girls!” He steps inside, as if oblivious to the tension. He might be, but Marinette doubts it. They’ve all gotten good at this lately. He comes to stand beside Marinette’s stool, slinging an arm over her shoulder. Her body rocks, leaning into his hold. “ _Daaamn_ , Marinette, this looks amazing!”

The tension eases out of her shoulders, a natural side effect of being around Nino Lahiffe. “Thanks, Nino. It’s slow-going, but I think I’m almost done with it.”

“Can I see it when it’s done?”

“Of course you can.” She turns her eyes to him, and gives him the most serious look she can manage. “Speaking of things that are almost done, whatever happened to that playlist you promised me?”

Nino’s lazy grin widens, and he steps away. “Patience, Marinette! For us common folk, greatness takes time.”

“It’s been two months, Nino.”

“ _Patience!_ ” He plops down on the ground beside Alya, leaning back on his hands. He peers at her laptop screen curiously. “Is that the assignment you’ve been putting off for weeks?”

Alya swats at him distractedly. “It’s been _a_ week, thank you. And I wasn’t putting it off. I simply lacked inspiration.”

Marinette hums playfully. “You know, that’s _exactly_ what Nino’s been saying about my playlist.”

“Hey!”

“ _Hey!_ ”

She laughs at their outraged cries, and just like that, the argument is forgotten.

* * *

There’s a support group for this type of thing.

It’s a brief, sweet, horribly cliché thing. _Hi, my name is So-and-So, and I’m a survivor of this-and-that_  — that kind of thing. They meet every Tuesday night, in the shelter beneath the church two streets down from the bakery. They have an assortment of stale, store bought cookies, dry lemon cake, and punch that tastes like water without a bit of flavor. It’s one awkward hour that Marinette would skip altogether, if she could. Sometimes, she does, but not as often as she’d like. Whenever her father asks if she’s going this week, she’ll avoid his eyes, shrug and say, “I don’t know, Dad.”

From wherever he is, she’ll _feel_ the sigh he holds back. “I think you should.”

“I know you do.” And two minutes pass. Two silent minutes, every damn week, that eat at her until she says, “Maybe I will.”

She almost always does.

She pinches the sleeve of her knit sweater — an ugly and uncomfortable gag gift from Luka that no one expected her to get so attached to — tugging it down her arm. She shifts in the uncomfortable seat, the bones of her butt aching from the hard plastic. The lint from the sweater rubs against her scarred skin. The itch keeps her in the present.

“It was scary,” the speaker of the minute says. She fiddles with one of the multi-colored twists in her hair, short legs kicking back and forth. “I remember… I guess I _don’t_ remember. It was… really, really dark. I could _hear_ what was happening, but I couldn’t see it. I couldn’t move, not… not underneath the rubble.” She stops, curling into herself. The tears come soon after.

Across the circle, a blonde in bleached white pants and a designer sweater pops her gum. She tips her head, bored eyes hidden beneath expensive sunglasses. It _bleeds_ haughtiness, even when you don’t consider the fact that it’s six o’clock at night, and they’re underground. Marinette rolls her eyes, looking away from her.

Mademoiselle Bustier smiles, soft and maternal, putting a hand on the girl’s knee. “You don’t have to keep going, Mylène.” She squeezes gently before letting go, lacing her fingers together in her lap. “Anyone else? ...Marinette?” Thin, pink lips spread into an encouraging smile, aimed right at her. “You’ve been quiet tonight.”

As opposed to every _other_ night, when she is equally quiet.

“No, thank you, Mademoiselle.” She lifts a hand to her mouth, coughing weakly. It doesn’t come close to a real cough. “I’m not feeling too well tonight.”

The woman’s face fills with what can only be described as _knowing._ There’s nothing worse than that look; nothing worse than having that look directed at you. “That’s alright, Marinette. Whenever you’re ready.” With a subtle nod, she looks away. “Anyone else?”

Exactly twenty-three minutes later, Marinette slips the strap of her purse onto her shoulder, and ducks out of the room before the others have even gotten out of their seats. And if she hears Bustier’s gentle call for her attention, she ignores it.

Behind brand name shades, electric blue eyes follow her frame, watching through the crowd of akuma survivors as she goes, goes, goes, and disappears without a word.

* * *

She learns the definition of _white noise_ when she’s standing on top of the Eiffel Tower. The air is chilled and quiet up here, breeze gently blowing her hair. Up here, alone with nothing but her suit and a yoyo, she feels more at peace than she ever has. What little sound filters up here, the residual chatter from the masses beneath her, is nothing but white noise. Static, nearly drowned out by the blissful silence.

Ladybug closes her eyes, toes peeking over the edge. Her worries vanish, falling to the ground she stands so high above. She breathes steadily and easily, each breath stretching muscles that’ve been tense and unattended for far too long.

When she inhales, Paris cries out to her, shouting their every fear and pain. Hands reach up to her, phantom figures of nightmares, clawing at her legs, begging, crying, pleading, needing. She can feel their nails digging into scar tissue, dragging down until they rip the skin open again, tearing out all that she’s kept bottled inside, leaving her empty and off-balance. She chokes on their disappointment, their suffering, their malice.

And when she exhales, the world falls silent again. The hands disappear back into the recesses of her mind, and her skin heals. She stitches herself back together, needle and thread and nothing else, and she’s whole again.

Weightless, she falls.

The descent is fast and terrifying. She goes head first, shoulders, arms, waist, legs, feet following. She doesn’t open her eyes. She can feel the ground rushing up at her, and her heart beats faster and faster the longer she delays catching herself.

Everything that she fears is swept away by the wind, replaced by a single running thought —  _I don’t want to die, I don’t want to die, idontwanttodieidontwanttodie_  — and tears well behind her eyelids, and _for the first time_ , she feels like she isn’t falling apart at the seams, _how ironic_.

Her fingers twitch, reaching for the string of her yo-yo, but she’s yanked off course. A hand wraps around her wrist, tugging her close, before an arm circles her waist. She’s pulled roughly into a firm hold, another body against hers. Her eyes snap open, and she only catches a glimpse of blond hair, before the fall is disrupted, and they’re shooting up, up, away from the ground. In the blink of an eye, any sense of peace vanishes.

Ladybug’s wiggles her arms up to his chest, pushing against him. His grip on her waist tightens to the point where it’s almost bruising. “Would you knock it off?” He grunts, his chest vibrating against hers. She pushes even harder, shoving her knee into his thigh. “Ow! You’re— for the love of fucking— you’re making this harder than it needs to be, bug!”

“Then let—” She shoves. “—me—” Shoves. “— _go!_ ” _Shoves_ , and breaks out of his hold. Her yo-yo is flying before she even realizes it, thin cord winding around a lamp post. She swings from it naturally, curving upwards. Her body flies through the air uninhibited, weightless, unanchored. She latches onto another, higher perch, swings herself up, and comes crashing down onto the top of a building. She tucks her knees in, allowing gravity to pull her down, and uses the momentum to roll. The fall is none too kind, bits of asphalt tearing through the material of her suit. She skids to a stop, scraping the skin of her knees.

A leather clad figure lands on his feet clear across the roof. Breathlessly, he huffs at her, glaring through his cowl. “That was unnecessary. I’d ask if you were trying to get yourself killed, but your tower-diving stunt makes that _purr_ ity obvious.”

“I was going to catch myself.”

He scoffs. “Clearly.”

Ladybug gets to her feet with a roll of her eyes, hands dusting dirt off of her suit. “What does it matter to you anyway, Chat Noir? I would’ve thought you’d _want_ me to fall.”

“You mean have my _best friend_ become Parisian street art? Hard pass.”

 _My best friend._ The ache is old and outgrown, unbidden and unwanted. Sarcasm: noted. It takes everything in her not to react. Her arms cross over her stomach, portraying confidence that she doesn’t feel. “What do you want, Chat?”

“Me _ouch_ , bug.” His lips curve into a knife’s edge, beautiful and dangerous and sharp enough to cut her to pieces. He leans against his pole, tail swinging languidly behind him. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say it feels like you don’t want to see me.” The pause is too pregnant, too predictable, and she already knows what comes next, even before his smile slips. “D—”

“No Bee tonight?” The blinding yellow costume is curiously absent from tonight’s clash. It puts Ladybug off-center, makes her paranoid, makes her—

Nostalgic.

In the darkness, she can lie and say she doesn’t see the way his face shutters beneath his mask. All she sees is the return of that deadly smile, as if he wasn’t going to ask; as if she didn’t know he would. “You know Queenie. She’s a busy bee. We can’t be together _all_ the time. But I’m sure she’d show if I called.”

“Lucky me,” she deadpans.

A startled laugh fills the space between them, honest where she doesn't want it to be. “After all that shit you gave me for _my_ puns.”

“That wasn’t a pun, Chat.” It kind of was. His eyes shine with humor and smugness, as if he sees right through her lies. She tears her gaze from him, dropping her head to release a breath. She lets go of that part of her that still longs for these moments. Tomorrow, she’ll be back, and she’ll miss him even more. Tonight, Ladybug strengthens her resolve, and meets his eyes across the night. “Are you going to ask or not?”

His smile — genuine and beautiful and heartwarming and heartbreaking — fades at the question. It’s replaced with another — biting and horrifying and intimidating and addicting — that makes her skin crawl. “Has your answer changed at all?”

“No.” It never will.

Chat Noir sighs, loud and theatrical. “Then I guess there’s no point in asking.” With a twirl of his staff, he saunters over to her, the distance shrinking to nothing in a matter of seconds. Then he’s _right there_ , staring down at her, close enough that the luminescent green of his eyes shine like emeralds, and it’s all she can see. “Last chance, bugaboo. Give me your miraculous.”

“Or what?” Staring into the eyes of her past, present, and future, she pokes the devil with a stick. “You’ll _hurt me?_ ”

Once upon a time, his answer was _I’d never hurt you_. Now, she ducks beneath sharpened claws slicing through the air her neck occupied. She drops to the ground, sweeping her leg at his ankles. He jumps above it, body arching through the air in a perfect back flip. He lands in a crouch, several feet away. With a sneer, he extends his staff. “Why can’t you ever make this easy on me, Ladybug?”

She twirls her yo-yo around, smiling at him. “What would be the fun in that?” She takes a step back, then another, never breaking eye contact. Her heel reaches the edge of the roof, and her smile turns into a smirk. “Catch me if you can, _kitty._ ”

His sneer vanishes as his eyes widen. “Wait, Ladybug—”

She falls backwards, dropping hard and fast. She catches herself quickly, swinging from stop light to building. She goes high speed, flipping and twisting through the air. Her body moves of its own accord, as if a bird was let from its cage, wings spread, soaring with no destination. She’s a butterfly breaking from the cocoon, exploring the air around her, and he's—

Red clothed feet land lightly and without sound on the top of the university. She only pauses briefly, then starts towards the Tom & Sabine Boulangerie Patisserie.

Her stomach rests at the soles of her feet, and it has nothing to do with the lack of chase.

No, really.

* * *

Wednesday morning comes with sweat-slick pajamas sticking to her skin, the smell of bread rising from the bakery, a headache for the ages, and a nightmare that escapes her memory.

Breathing uneven, Marinette’s eyes dart to the pillow beside her own. Tikki sleeps unbothered, small limbs spread as far they can go. If Marinette put her hand over her, it would cover the kwami’s entire form. Her nightmare slowly releases its hold on her, and Marinette brushes the back of her finger over Tikki’s head. She stirs, curling towards the touch, but doesn’t wake.

 _5:42_ is displayed on the screen of her phone, and in her sleep-addled mind, it feels like even her _phone_ is in disbelief. Marinette’s the farthest thing from a morning person, but the five am’s, the six am’s — they’re all becoming standard for her.

Downstairs, her mother laughs at something, and Marinette lies back down. She pulls the cover over her head, and closes her eyes. She doesn’t sleep, but she breathes. In —  _two, three, four_  — and right back out. She listens to her parents laugh, and hears her mother’s _Oh, Tom!_ when soft music starts to play.

In her mind, she imagines them dancing around the kitchen while they wait for the bread downstairs, the way they used to. Back when she would grumpily march downstairs, and groan at the sight of them. They would laugh at her distress until she went back upstairs to dress for the day. Sometimes, her papa would switch partners, and lead Marinette in a clumsy waltz. Sometimes, the three of them would dance together, bumping into each other, or swinging around in a circle, and Marinette would smile and laugh. Back when their home was the epitome of love and health, and not whatever it is now.

When her heart hurts a little less, and the guilt of what she could never control eases, she opens her eyes. She unlocks her phone with a press of her thumb, and turns her brightness all the way down. She occupies herself with the internet, checking every website she can think of but one, and stalls.

The time across her status bar reads _7:05_ when Marinette finally crawls out of bed. The bakery is a flurry of activity as people come in for food before school and work. Gathering an outfit for the day and some underwear, she sneaks down to the second floor. She peels off sticky clothes, and showers away the sweat from the night. Her hands brush over upraised skin, water washing away soap and sweat and dirt, but never the scars. She lets her back hit the wall of the shower, and she thinks of nothing at all.

* * *

_8:19_ , it reads when she’s dried and clothed. She brushes her hair down, and pulls it into a bun at the back of her head. She tugs a blazer on over her short-sleeved qipao shirt, and shoves combat boots on so they cover the bottom of her jeans. Slinging her purse over her shoulder, she glances past the bed. “Tikki,” she calls out softly. “Come on, or we’re going to be late for class.”

The small god pops her head out of the cookie jar they’d placed in the room some years ago. Flying over, she gives Marinette an appraising look. “Cute outfit, Marinette!”

She smiles, lifting the flap of her purse. “Thank you, Tikki! I figured Alya would be a little less upset with me if I put some work into my outfit today.”

Tikki settles into the purse, making herself comfortable in the spot carved out for her years ago. “Alya’s never upset with you, Marinette. I think she just wants you to get better.” Something must shift in Marinette’s expression, because Tikki hastily continues. “Not that there’s anything wrong with you! Everyone heals at their own pace. It takes time, and Alya understands that. She just worries about you.”

 _Everyone worries about you_ , the silence says.

“I know, Tikki.” With an attempt at a smile, Marinette closes her purse. Even from the depths of it, she can still hear it.

_Oh, Marinette._

* * *

Physics isn’t a class Marinette ever imagined herself taking. It’s not even a class she _enjoys._

She can’t even blame it on her major, or her general ed. It’s an _elective_ , and for some reason, the Marinette of three months ago decided that registering into the class would be a good idea. To make matters worse, the Marinette of two weeks ago, when the semester started, hadn’t even thought to _drop_ the class.

She could do so now, but it would feel too much like failing another person, another thing.

The screen of her phone lights up on her desk, providing a beautiful distraction. The professor doesn’t care enough about them texting to stop them. “It’s your education,” he bluntly told them at the beginning of the semester. “If you text and fail, that’s on you. I’ve still done my job, no matter what’s on your transcript.” It had done nothing to inspire the students to keep their phones off, but they’d gotten a sense of just how serious it was when the vast majority of them failed the first quiz, and he didn’t allow retakes.

Despite her own lackluster score, it hasn’t stopped Marinette.

 

 **kim, _09:19:_** if i paid u, would u sneak me some cupcakes before football practice

 

She snorts softly, giving it a second of thought. If she remembers correctly, Kim doesn’t have practice until five o’clock. She has a block of classes before that, but she should be out by four. It’s more than enough time to run to the bakery, grab some cupcakes, and bring them back.

 

 **marinette, _09:21:_** sure  
**marinette, _09:21:_** pay me what??

 

 **kim, _09:22:_** all of my love and affection

 

Marinette chokes back a laugh. The girl sitting in front of her throws her a nasty look over her shoulder. Marinette mouths a _sorry_ to her, but the girl has already looked away, red hair flipping over her shoulder. With a barely suppressed roll of her eyes, Marinette turns her attention back to the lecture. It doesn’t take long for her brain to realize none of it makes sense and zone out. Picking up her phone again, she texts Kim back.

 

 **marinette, _09:31:_** on second thought, i might not

 

 **kim, _09:36:_** that’s cold, mari  
**kim, _09:37:_** didn’t ur parents teach u not to think about the money

 

 **marinette, _09:41:_** we run a bakery, kim

 

 **kim, _09:45:_** what’s ur point

 

Before she can text him back, another notification banner appears on her phone.

 

 **alix, _09:46:_** are you seriously bringing kim cupcakes???  
**alix, _09:46:_** bring me some too  
**alix, _09:47:_** you love me more than him AND i have actual money

 

 **marinette, _09:47:_**  deal

 

What she gets from Alix is an impressive string of emojis that would only make sense to the girl herself and Kim. It does nothing to wipe the goofy smile from Marinette’s face. She knows it’s only a matter of time before the subject of cupcakes comes up in the group chat, and she begins the mourning process for what little money she already has.

“...Marinette?”

She jumps in her seat. Her knee hits the bottom of the desk, as her phone falls from her grip, clattering to the ground, and her head jerks back, hitting the wall behind her. “ _Ow!_ ” She rubs the back of her head with a pained groan and adds this to the list of reasons she regrets taking the class.

A chuckle pulls her from her grumpy reverie, and she blinks when her phone is presented in front of her. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”

“Um, no, it’s fine, you… didn’t.” Taking the phone from him, she can’t help but stare. “Adrien Agreste?”

“That’s me.” He smiles awkwardly at her, stuffing his hand in his pocket and rocking on his heels. “You’re my partner.”

“I’m — what?”

“For the assignment?” Green eyes flooded with amusement, he tips his head at her. “Were you not paying attention?”

“Of course not,” she blurts. “Wait — I was! Paying attention. Not… _not_ paying attention.”

He nods with this smile on his face, like he doesn’t believe a word she’s saying. “Of course.” He slips into the seat beside her, and she takes the chance to glance around the room. At some point, everyone switched seat except for her, now paired up with people she doubts they’ve ever spoken to. Considering a model is sitting beside a girl he’s likely never noticed, who’s never spoken in class, and who doesn’t even _pretend_ to know what’s going on, she’s willing to bet the pairs were selected by the teacher. Beside her, Adrien flips open his notebook, and digs a pen out of his bag. “Did you get the lecture?”

She opens her mouth to lie, but her phone lights up between them. Seemingly all at once, the screen is flooded with messages from the group chat. She doesn’t have to open it to know that Alix and Kim bragged about the cupcakes and started a war. Adrien looks at the phone pointedly, then up at her. “...Maybe not?”

He laughs, the sound full and deep and enough to make her blush. “Do you want me to explain it? I like to think I’m good at this.”

Her shoulders drop in relief. At least he’s not making fun of her, and she could use the help anyway. “Could you? I don’t get this stuff at all.”

The smile he aims her way is charming and understanding, and _wow_ , it could make a person swoon. “We can start with vector vs. scalar.”

“Perfect, I have no idea what that means.”

* * *

The three-hour class passes by in the blink of an eye. Adrien explains everything to her in a way that makes it easier to understand, and she jots it all down in her notebook. He grins when he sees the aesthetic of it all — because, yes, she’s  _that_ girl — and points out the things that she misses. When they’ve finished the assignment, and the lecture resumes, he stays in the seat beside her and lets her copy his notes.

She’s a little surprised when it’s over, and has to check the clock on the wall just to make sure the teacher isn’t mistaken. But it’s now twelve o’clock, and she has another class in thirty minutes. The rest of the class is already collecting their things, the more prepared students filing out of the room without a second thought. She has time to waste, so she takes her time in putting her things away— shuts the notebook, slips it inside the bag; collects the pens and highlighters, puts them very carefully in their respective places, closes her planner, sets it inside. She looks just as studious as she isn’t, and tries to trick herself into being this person. She’s not, but it’s a nice effort.

The rustling beside her reminds her of her unexpected companion in the class. She glances up at him, hiking her bag over her shoulder as she stands. “Thanks for today, Adrien. You’re a lifesaver.”

Startling green eyes lift to meet hers, and his smile is _just_ the right amount of crooked and soft as butter, and _oh no._ “It’s my pleasure, Marinette. Though I’m starting to wonder if your friends have separation anxiety or something.”

Cheeks dusted red, she rolls her eyes. “From _food_ , maybe. They just want me to bring them cupcakes.”

“Will you?”

“Half of them plan on paying me in _love and affection._ ”

He grins. “Well, that’s something, isn’t it?”

“Absolutely not. As soon as they get their treats, they won’t talk to me for a _week._ ”

Adrien laughs, and it’s — it’s the kind of thing you read about sixteen-year-old protagonists falling in love with in cliché young adult novels. Absolutely nothing about Adrien says _bad boy with a dangerous past_ , least of all the numerous posters and magazines with his face on them, but Marinette can easily imagine him in that role. If he didn’t look like purity and sex mixed together, that is. (Wait.) “Interesting friends you got there.” He shifts on his feet, sticking his hands in his pockets, like he doesn’t know what else to do with them. “Hey, Marinette, I—”

She stares up at him curiously, awaiting the end of the sentence, before realizing that he’s forgotten all about her. His eyes are on the door, and when she follows his gaze, what little hope she had for him dies out. There’s a blonde girl standing at the door, hair pulled back into a tight ponytail, hand on her hip, and lips forming an irritated frown. “She doesn’t look like the patient type.”

His eyes snap to her. “What? Oh, no, she isn’t.” He laughs sheepishly, rubbing his neck. All of that easy confidence and comfort they’ve built feels like a memory now, like she could’ve imagined it. Maybe she did. Does anyone ever really bond with a guy they met in class? “I should get going, but… I’ll see you Friday?”

Marinette nods, smiling politely at him. “I’ll see you on Friday, Adrien.” With a wave, she’s the first to go. She slips past the very-much-not-happy possible girlfriend out of the room, and prepares herself for another class she won’t understand, and another day of holding her breath.

If she feels the pairs of eyes that follow her out of the room, taking in everything from the way she holds her bag, to the way she walks — well. She doesn’t.


	2. all the world's a stage.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I thought you could use a friend.”
> 
> Adrien can’t help it — he laughs. There’s little to no humor to be found in the sound, but his shoulders shake all the same as his father watches impassively. “It took you twenty years to figure out I need friends?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is _not_ how you get to know people, adrien.
> 
> (ps i know the bakery isn’t a sit-and-eat kind of place, but for the sake of this story, it is. also, i would’ve posted this friday, but i’ve been sick. sorry!)

“You’re playing with fire.”

 _Rich_ , coming from her. It’s reluctance rather than hesitation that makes him pause before looking over at her. Legs crossed primly beneath her short skirt, the material slipping up her thigh, and arms crossed over her chest, it’s probably the angriest she’s has ever been with him. They’ve fallen out before. It’s the cost of a partnership. Not like the one from before, though that one had faults of its own. They’re more… _communicative_ than he was with the other, and communication doesn’t always mean civil conversations.

In the sixteen years Adrien Agreste has known Chloé Bourgeois, this is the first time she’s refused to look at him. His teeth pierce his lower lip as he fights back a satisfied smile. If he’d known it was _this easy_ , he would’ve pulled something like this years ago.

She cuts a glare to him, and he knows he isn’t as subtle as he wants to be. He sighs. “We share a class, Chloé. It’s not like I tracked her down.”

“And talking to her _after_ class?”

“I’m making friends.”

“You’re being an idiot!”

“I’m curious.”

“You’re _too curious!_ ”

“And you’re not?” He scowls at her, the limo suddenly feeling too small for the both of them. “You can’t really be—”

She silences him with a look. Adrien has never been afraid of Chloé, and he stopped letting her boss him around years ago. She has no power over him, but even he knows better than to test her when she has that look in her eyes. “I am. Whatever it is you’re so _curious_ about, Adrien—” She spits out the word as if it’s a curse, and he almost thinks it is. “—I put to rest _months_ ago. And you should, too.”

Jaw clenched, he tears his gaze away from her again. The air between them is tense and electric in a way it should never be. Her personal driver plays ignorant, keeping his eyes forward as he navigates the roads of Paris in the fall. Adrien watches the world pass by through the window, watching as students and families and couples walk along the pavement. They pass a bakery, and he thinks about the girl with dark hair and bright blue eyes.

Marinette Dupain-Cheng. Something new and clothed in wonder.

Minutes, hours, days, years pass before they reach the bent stop sign two blocks away from his home, and he speaks again. “You really don’t want to know, Chloé?”

“Know _what_ , Adrien?” Their eyes meet, and he finds genuine bewilderment beneath that anger. “What do you think you’re going to learn from this?”

The car moves forward, and Adrien debates the question. What _does_ he want from this? “I need to know what happened to her after that night.”

Chloe tends to do this thing where when you say something she doesn’t like, she shuts you out. And when you say something that hurts, or something that hits a nerve, she shuts down completely. Not in a sense that she stops functioning, but it becomes damn near impossible to get a sense of what’s going on in that head of hers. It’s far from the bratty meltdowns she used to have when they were younger, but he can’t say which one he hates more.

She does it now. He watches as the light in her eyes dies, replaced with this blankness that leaves him on edge. Her mouth presses into a flat line, and she doesn’t look away from him for even a second. “We know what happened to her, Adrien. She’s not a mystery to be solved. She’s a scab, and not one you want to pick at.”

He sucks in a breath, prepared to make a retort, _any_ retort, but finds himself speechless.

They pull up to the Agreste mansion, a prison dressed in silver and marble and gold, and she slants a glare at him. “Well? Get out.”

He doesn’t think twice before obeying.

* * *

Wednesday is uneventful and borderline dreadful.

He argues his way out of a photoshoot directly after class, though that means he has to suffer through one _before_ class on Friday. Piano lessons drag on for hours, fingers cramping as they heartlessly dance through Klaviersonate No. 17 in B Major. He breezes through fencing lessons, feeling the last of his love for the sport leave him. He learns Russian from an impersonal teacher and comes home to a cold house.

Nathalie ushers him to an extravagant dinner on the table, the chefs scurrying away when he dismisses them for the night. He eats alone, while Nathalie joins his father in his study. When Adrien was younger, he would amuse himself with thoughts of a secret affair between the two of them. He’d press his ear against closed doors and theorize about what the silence could _possibly_ mean.

He abandoned those fantasies a long time ago. Any dreams of his father happily moving on from his mother and finding love in his assistant were dashed years ago. Any delusions of his father moving on with his life were killed when—

Dinner might as well be ash, for all that he enjoys it. He drops his dishes in the sink, retreats to bed, and stares at the clock on the wall.

Monotony tastes like poison, and he’s yet to build up an immunity.

* * *

Thursday passes in a blur of boredom and hardly suppressed anger. He goes through the motions, plays the same songs on the cello, practices calligraphy until it’s a personal artform. One, two, three, four, one, two, three, four, the same routine as every other week.

It’s six in the evening when Chloé texts him. It’s short and simple, it’s—

 

_eiffel tower, 40 mins_

—not even close to an apology, but it brings a smile to his face anyway. He digs a key from beneath his mattress, fits it into a lock, and twists. “Plagg, claws out.”

* * *

Marinette could probably use a coffee. That, or four days of uninterrupted rest.

Arguably both.

She’s sitting in the back of class when he gets there, phone in hand. There’s muted disinterest in her gaze, as if she’s _trying_ to stay in the moment, but beneath it all, she’s indifferent. Maybe that’s what it looks like to be—

He sits down in the seat beside her. “Good morning, Marinette.”

Shock colors her expression as her head whips around to face him. She’s awfully jumpy. He schools his expression into neutrality, lest Chloé’s words echo in his mind; lest he find she’s right. Marinette smiles at him. “Hn— uh, hi, Adrien! Good how are morning?” His brows lift as he struggles to decode that. Visibly flustered, she tries again. “Good morning. How are you?”

“Pretty good. A little tired,” he admits, because even the greatest of lies should be dipped in honesty.

“From the photoshoot this morning?” He can’t contain the dubious look he throws her way, and she waves her hands frantically. “I’m not— I wasn’t, like, _stalking you_ , I swear! I was just— on Twitter, it—”

“You’re a fan of my father.” The words are dull, blunt edges coated in ice.

“I— yeah.” She laughs awkwardly, as if embarrassed. It does little to take the edge off of his disappointment. He doesn’t blame her for it, because nearly everyone is a fan of _the_ Gabriel Agreste, Adrien just… he wanted her to be different. “I’ve always wanted to be a designer, and he’s been my inspiration for as long as I can remember.”

Sadistically, he wonders about that. Wonders how impressed, how _inspired_ she would be if she knew who Gabriel Agreste was behind his success and his net worth.

He shoves down that ferocious feeling, and instead focuses on what he learns about her. “You want to be a designer?”

Her phone lights up, and from where he sits, he can see the name _Luka_ in boldened letters across the banner. Of the many names that flooded Marinette’s phone on Wednesday, he doesn’t recall seeing that one. He wonders about him, too— about all of Marinette’s friends. The sick, twisted desire to know about this girl, to worm his way into her life festers the more he sits with her, and Chloé’s words echo.

_She’s a scab._

Maybe she is, and maybe he’s a glutton for punishment.

* * *

“I thought you could use a friend.”

Adrien can’t help it — he laughs. There’s little to no humor to be found in the sound, but his shoulders shake all the same as his father watches impassively. “It took you twenty years to figure out I need friends?” It’s as if he’s completely forgotten the bulk of Adrien’s teenage years, where he downright _begged_ to go to school, to party with kids his own age, to communicate with kids whose parents didn’t have shares in the company.

“It took you twenty years to earn it.”

His hands curl to fists. His nails dig into his palms, nearly hard enough to break skin. He doesn’t know which part to protest first. The fact that his father seems to think human interaction is a privilege to be earned, or the fact that he’s treating this like some _gift._ “I don’t want someone you _bought_ , Father. I can make my own friends.”

The sight of Gabriel Agreste’s smile is a terrifying thing. It lacks the abject warmth and tenderness required, especially when aimed at one’s son. It’s slow and horrifying, the edges of his mouth curling just so, lips pressed tight together. His eyes are cold as steel, filled with a brutal amusement that makes everyone else seem like a jester to his majesty. Even now, it sets Adrien on edge, as if the second his father opens his mouth, he’ll devour him whole, and Adrien will be less of a person than he already is. “You can,” he repeats, words falling languidly from his tongue. “Then why haven’t you?”

The worst part— the thing is: _he’s not wrong._ Yes, Adrien missed out on years of public school, and never had the chance to forge lifelong friendships. People like Chloé and Lila and Sabrina and Marc and Kagami don’t count, because those are _bought_ friends. Their parents dangled money and power before his father, and he did the same to them, and it ended with six kids pushes together and told to make nice. The term _friends_ doesn’t apply to them, because that’s not _real._ Not the way they could’ve been.

No, he never had that chance, but he’s been in college for some years now. He’s had his chance to make new friends, and in some manner, he _has._ He’s exchanged numbers with classmates in the past, spent his lunch breaks with guys who smelt like grass and sweat instead of cologne and cash. He’s made casual friends, but no one he ever spoke to after the semester. No one he ever brought home — not to meet what’s left of his family, but to flaunt. _Look at this,_ he would have thought, _I made a friend that you would never approve of._ As much as he dreamed of that, that’s where it ended.

Even after two weeks of maybe-befriending Marinette Dupain-Cheng, he has nothing to show for it. Not a number in his phone, not a crumpled wrapper from a cupcake, not even the fading memory of a laugh.

His father deliberately loosening the reins, letting Adrien believe he had actual freedom, just to prove that he doesn’t know what to do with it — that’s the worst thing.

When Adrien neglects to answer, Gabriel turns his attention back to the papers spread out before him. “He’ll be here momentarily. I’d prefer if you took him elsewhere.”

“You don’t trust the guy you hired?” His voice sounds flat, and it’s only somewhat intentional.

“He’s not quite like those others,” Gabriel says. “And Adrien? I think I’ll keep Plagg for the day.” It burns somewhere deep inside, but Adrien knows his father well enough to hear the dismissal.

Getting kicked out of places, by the people who’ve always wanted him around— well, he’s getting used to it.

* * *

When Adrien Agreste met Marc Anciel, they were fifteen. Marc was a shy kid who’d just moved into the area, and with him came his parents and the kind of money most people couldn’t even _dream_ of.

They’d been shoved into Adrien’s room together while his father showed Monsieur and Madame Anciel through the mansion. It was a little competition people like that played. _Look at this vintage painting I have. Look at these unique, expensive artifacts on display. Look at the chandelier. How much have you spent on your house exactly? Certainly not as much as me._

(“It’s a glorified measuring contest,” Chloé had declared one day, words coated in boredom as she filed her nails. Lila choked on stolen champagne, then proceeded to laugh so hard, the butler stepped in the room with an offer to call a paramedic.)

Though he’d never say as much, Adrien had been prepared to hate Marc Anciel. He was prepared to hate him the way he hated Sabrina and Lila, the way he grew to hate Chloé, the way he fears he’ll hate Kagami one day. The kind of grotesque abhorrence that hid behind friendly smiles and tangled limbs and shared glasses of wine; the kind that ended with a metaphorical and literal knife in someone’s back, aided by a sharp lack of regret. He’d been so prepared to add Marc to the list of people who would cozy up with Adrien for the sake of Instagram posts and tabloids. Searching for the title of a model’s best friend, with access to the Agreste fortune and clothes.

Marc Anciel came with fingerless gloves, an oversized red sweater and pants that were rolled up at the ankles. He clutched a journal in his arms, and hesitated to even speak to Adrien, let alone achieve _best friend_ status. The icing on the cake was the absolute _fury_ his father had displayed when the Anciel family had left for the night. “What was the boy _wearing?_ I’d never let you—” And on and on about all of the things he found wrong about the rich but unconventional family, about all of the things Adrien would never do while he bore the last name Agreste.

He was the last and best friend Adrien had ever made.

All of that is to say, Marc Anciel is Adrien’s standard for _not like the others,_ and he knows that’s a line his father will never cross again. This new friend, one so easily bought, is doomed to be a disappointment, before they even meet.

At least, that’s what Adrien thought going into this.

“’Sup, dude?” Brown eyes hidden behind thick-framed glasses give him a once over. Not totally in a _checking you out_ kind of way, but also a little bit like that. “Never thought someone who looks like you would pay for a friend, but hey.”

“…Hi.” It might come off a little rude, and he _genuinely_ hopes it doesn’t, but he’s a little thrown off here. The guy in front of him wears a cotton t-shirt that Adrien could find at any given dollar store, and faded jeans that are a little too baggy around the ankles. He has headphones sitting around his neck, and a _cap_ , of all things. Everything his father absolutely hates in a person; the kind of thing that would send him into cardiac arrest, if Adrien had brought a guy like this around.

The guy whose name he still doesn’t know stares back at him, then nods. “Okay, dude.” He pats Adrien’s back, then more or less shoves him towards the sidewalk. “I’m Nino. What’s your name?”

“Uh. Adrien?” Does he not know that? No, that’s impossible. And not just because of the whole model thing, though that usually saves Adrien the trouble of introductions. But who signs up to be friends with someone whose name they don’t even know? “Did my father actually… pay you to be friends with me?”

Nino peers at him through scratched lenses, then heaves a huge sigh, as if this is physically and mentally taxing. “Let’s get this out of the way now, dude.” _Dude_. When was the last time someone called him _dude?_ “Yes, your dad paid me, but that’s not why I’m doing this.”

Adrien blinks. “Then…”

“Anyone whose dad goes actively searching for a friend for them _clearly_ needs one. And I figured, _this is kind of a dick move, but if the guy needs a friend, he’ll get a friend._ And I have it on good authority that I’m the _best_ friend.”

“Oh.” He truly has no idea what to make of that. “So… you’re doing this for me.”

“Yeah.”

“And you would have done it even if you weren’t offered money.”

Nino scoffs, as if the very question is ridiculous. “Friendship has no price, bro.”

 _Bro._ Despite the rather questionable situation, Adrien smiles. “I mean, you _did_ take the money.”

“You know what—”

* * *

Tom & Sabine’s Boulangerie Patisserie is a little crowded when they get there.

Almost every table is filled, but it takes Nino absolutely no effort to find a spot for them. He calls out to the owners with the sort of familiarity Adrien doesn’t have with any adult— or person, for that matter— then plops down onto a chair across from Adrien. “Ugh, of course she’s late,” he grumbles, immediately pulling his phone from his pocket. He taps furiously at it, presumably texting whoever _she_ is to tell her to hurry up. “I bet she’s chasing another Ladybug story.”

Just the _name_ makes his chest ache. Adrien struggles for a response, and all but freezes when Nino sets his phone down. The screen is still lit up, time displayed against a backdrop of three smiling faces. “Who’s that?”

“My girlfriend,” Nino answers easily.

It only makes sense that he asks— “Which one?”

“Alya. The hot one with the glasses. The cute one in pigtails is her best friend, Marinette.”

Adrien examines the picture a little closer. It’s a car selfie, with Nino and Alya in the front, and Marinette sitting in the backseat. Nino’s grin is all teeth, eyes closed as he angles the camera to capture all three of them. Alya is leaned against the center console, a sly sort of smile on her lips, as if there’s a secret hidden within the picture. Marinette is caught mid-laugh, the skin around her eyes crinkled in genuine mirth.

Adrien doesn’t have to guess why Nino chose this picture. The three of them all smile so differently, honest smiles that show exactly who they are. The picture must’ve been taken during the summer, at most two months ago. No, Marinette got her scars in May. From last year, then. They’re in swimwear, a white shirt sticking to Nino’s damp chest, and drops of water can barely be seen on the girls’ skin.

Something about the picture leaves Adrien with slight discomfort, but he doesn’t quite know what it is.

“While I’m at it,” Nino mutters, picking up his phone again, “I might as well tell Marinette to meet us here, too.” He’s lazily typing out a message before his words even register to Adrien.

Wait.

“Wh—” Nino looks up at him curiously, and Adrien carefully weighs his next words. “What if she’s busy or something?”

Nino waves him off, setting his phone back on the table. “She’s not. She’s probably just working on a design. Trust me, she needs a break.”

Adrien has a thousand and one arguments on the tip of his tongue, all lies and excuses to not call Marinette here. _It might be a long walk,_ he could say. _I don’t know her. Won’t it be awkward?_ With a bit of shifting and uncertain eyes. _I don’t know how to talk to girls,_ which would be a bit embarrassing, but probably effective. He has a slew of excuses at the ready, but swallows them all.

He _wants_ to see Marinette again. Twice in one week has been good enough, but twice in one day? It’s temptation dangling before him on a fine string. The chance to soothe that curiosity and abate his lust for closure.

“Nino,” someone sighs. “Did you even _consider_ ordering before texting me?”

Nino grins. “Nope! I figured since you work here and all, you’d do it for me, Mari.”

Marinette rolls her eyes, then blinks at the sight of the extra party. “A-Adrien! What are you— I didn’t know you—” The blush that spreads across her cheeks is inexplicable, but pretty.

 _She’s a scab_ , he thinks, and digs his nail in even further.

“Nino invited me out for lunch,” he explains with a smile. “I didn’t know you worked here, Marinette.” He throws Nino a look. What happened to _she’s at home designing?_

Marinette nods. “My parents own the bakery. I live upstairs, so I can come and go as needed. And it’s _supposed_ to be my day off,” she adds pointedly, throwing a glare to Nino.

The accused doesn’t look worried in the least. “Days off are meant to be spent with best friends, Mari. What do you think Alya’s going to say when she gets here?”

“The same thing she always does,” she mutters, turning on her heel. “Don’t tell anyone else you’re here. No more cupcake wars!”

Nino laughs like it’s some age old inside joke, and Adrien feels in and out of place, all at once.

* * *

Alya Césaire flops down into her seat in a rush, dropping her bag onto the floor and reaching into the middle of the table to grab a macaroon. She lets out a moan upon biting into it. “ _Mm,_ Marinette, did you make these?”

“I did! I wanted to try a new recipe, and I figured Nino would eat them anyway.”

Tossing his sixth macaroon into his mouth, Nino smiles. “I sure would.”

Alya makes a disgusted noise, and Marinette passes Nino a napkin. The latest arrival starts to reach for another one, then stops. Bright brown eyes stare in him in shock and interest. “Adrien Agreste?”

“Um.” He chuckles nervously. “Hi.”

“…Hi.” She looks at the other two occupants of the table. “We’re friends with Adrien Agreste?”

“Yep.”

“Looks like it!”

Adrien says nothing.

Alya stares at him for another moment, then shrugs. “Welcome to the group, sunshine.”

And somehow, that’s that.

* * *

There’s nothing quite as beautiful as watching Queen Bee in action.

Adrien crouches in the shadowed corner of the rooftop, fluorescent eyes watching as a star of yellow and black whips through the air. Her wings are spread wide, almost invisible against the night’s sky. Every flip is measured and perfect, abandoning her air of carelessness. She’s the picture of freedom, of—

No.

* * *

See, the thing is, he doesn’t believe her for a second.

Adrien has known Chloé damn near his entire life, and he knows when she’s being sincere. She almost always is. Now that he’s older, he can see that her honesty sometimes borders on cruelty. It’s something she’s gotten out of the habit of doing often, but even at twenty years old, her words are too cutting. Her angry words are an exercise in brutality, and they’re always, _always_ honest.

Except for the argument in the limousine.

Then, she was aiming for what she thought he needed to hear. Not what he wanted to hear. Not what she truly felt.

Because he knows Chloé, and in all of her cruelty and sadism, she’s still a person. She’s a twenty-year-old woman whose mom walked out on her, and who still comes to visit Adrien sometimes, for the sole purpose of curling up beneath his sheets and crying. She’s the same girl who stood up for Marc when Lila smiled oh so cruelly and spat biting words at him as he trembled beneath her gaze. The same Chloé who attended a funeral three years ago, and came back with a changed perspective.

Chloé doesn’t just _get over it._ Not when it comes to things like this.

Not when it comes to things like Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

Chloé has learned some hard lessons in life, and that _changes you._ She holds onto the things that matter, and carries them with her like a family heirloom. She internalizes those things — those _errors_ — and wraps them around her heart like a vine.

So when she says she’s moved on from what happened? He knows for a fact that she’s lying.

* * *

“Are you going to sit there all night, Chat Noir?”

Adrien breaks from his train of thought, meeting her electric blue eyes through the night. It’s nothing like what came before. There’s no easy, frequent teasing coupled with ill-timed puns, no midnight patrols simply for the sake of being with each other. There’s no soft moonlight, no longing in the air, no Lady—

But there’s Adrien and Chloé, Chat Noir and Queen Bee, and that’s something altogether different, altogether more meaningful.

So he smirks, using his baton to push himself off the ground. “Sitting’s not this kitty’s style, Your Highness. But you seem to be having fun. Wanna race?”

Hovering in the air, Queen Bee’s eyes shine with mischief. “What do I get when I beat you?”

He scoffs, taking confident but almost _bored_ strides to the edge of the roof. “How ’bout you actually _win_ first, then you can choose your prize. Anything you want.”

“…Anything?”

“Anything at all,” he says, because he’ll be drowned in regret later, but he thinks he can use some of that right about now.

* * *

It’s on a random Wednesday, about a week after meeting Nino Lahiffe and being brought into what feels like some inner circle, that he gets it.

Marinette sits in the seat beside him, and Adrien ignores the way Sabrina looks at him, and he smiles at his friend — because that’s what she is, somehow, that’s what all three of them are — and doesn’t question it at first. The way she wears a form-fitting sweater over her collared shirt, or the way her leggings disappear into boots despite the fact that it’s a little hotter out today, and this teacher never turns on the air.

It’s in the middle of the lesson, when her fingers start to pull her hair back, and she freezes, that he starts to get it. When her hands drop and she swallows thickly, hesitating to pick up her pen that it starts to make sense. He thinks of her now, then thinks back to the picture, and realizes it all at once.

In the picture, Marinette had her hair up, and wore a swimsuit. Though it was only a brief glimpse, he’d seen wide expanses of unblemished skin, from the curve of her shoulders, to the dip between her breasts, to the flatness of her stomach. Outside of it, though—

He’s never seen more than Marinette’s hands and face. Even her _neck_ is hidden beneath that collar, beneath falling locks of dark hair.

Realization hits like a bullet through his stomach, and the pen in his hand snaps.

* * *

_This is the worst idea you’ve had in a while, kid._

“I know.”

_Your dad and Bee’ll kill you, if they find out._

Clawed hands tighten around the metal bar he rests upon, his perch precarious but confident. “They won’t. It’s not like we’re going in, Plagg. It’s just—”

_Just what? Recon?_

“Sure.”

_That’s not what the cops call it._

Adrien rolls his eyes, dropping onto his butt. He pulls one knee closer to his chest, gaze trained on the building across from him. It’s not direct, of course. There’s a bit of distance between his post and his mark, leaving him out of sight, should said mark glance outside. But he has full view from here, of the beauty of Paris after midnight, of the stars shining over the Seine.

Most of all, his vantage point gives him the perfect view of Marinette Dupain-Cheng coming into her room after a shower. Her shades aren’t closed, and the part of Adrien that plays the role of her friend wants to scold her for it. Doesn’t she know how dangerous that is? Her room is rather high off the ground, far from something that can be peaked into from behind a bush, but that doesn’t mean it’s _safe._ Marinette, of all people, should know that there aren’t just monsters lurking in the dark; there are monsters in the sky.

But he’s not so oblivious as to not realize he’s the very monster he’d be warning her against.

He watches through open shades as she closes the door leading up to her room. Drops of water fall from her hair, drenching the robe she’s tied around herself. She towels her hair to near dryness, but nothing complete, before tossing the towel onto her bed. He doesn’t even entertain the thought of looking away when her fingers work at the knot tied around her waist. She struggles for only a second before it unravels in her hands, and she pries the robe off.

Adrien drinks in the sight of her with a dry mouth, but it has very little to do with her being a half-naked woman.

His eyes travel the stretch of scars across her body, as if they’re paths leading to treasure he’s devoted his life to finding. They mar otherwise perfect skin, stretching across her torso, disappearing beneath her bra and panties, and reappearing where the fabric ends. He can’t make out exact shapes from here, that would require him to get _close_ , and he digs his nails into his palms to keep from doing just that.

There’s very little room outside of the damage. If he weren’t intimate with the history behind her pain, he would think it was some animal. He paints the picture in his mind: small, defenseless Marinette, pinned beneath the massive paws of a misplaced beast. He imagines the claws digging into her, piercing the skin down to the _bone_ , and dragging, dragging, dragging, spurred on by her high-pitched screams. The aftermath would have been just as grotesque, he thinks. Her still body lying, choking in her own blood, mangled nearly beyond recognition. Doctors would’ve been worn out in their attempts to save her, and astonished by their own success.

“If only,” he murmurs, leg kicking back and forth, “life was that kind to you.”

Marinette turns her back to him, and his head tilts a fraction to the side. He studies the mauled work before him. It’s not nearly as bad as her front. It’s unnecessary damage, though one could argue that all of it is. The lines that cross her back are closer together, almost half-hearted in comparison to the carnage on the other side. She combs her fingers through her hair, forcing the damp strands into a loose bun atop her head. He can see the last tendrils of wreckage that have reached just to her hairline, covering the back of her neck with its hideous mark.

He pays little mind to the clothes she digs around for. His eyes fall from her back, down to her legs. Not even they’ve been spared. The lines look shallower as they drag lower, ending in sharp points near her calves. She tugs on flannel pants that are too big for her, tying the knot at the front as she turns back to face the _chaise_ she dropped her robe onto. She then pulls a long-sleeved shirt over her head, effectively covering the bulk of her scars.

How curious. To be so ashamed of those scars, even in the privacy of her own room. Perhaps that’s why she’s showering at such an ungodly hour. Long after her parents have gone to sleep, long after the rest of Paris has retired from its exhausting activities of the day.

She hides herself, even _from_ herself.

Plagg’s voice pierces through his mind, unexpected and unwelcome. _Seen enough for tonight?_

He continues observing her, as if Plagg never spoke at all. He watches as she prepares herself for bed, putting on deodorant, covering her hands in lotion, ignoring the bottle of what he thinks is ointment. She sits down on the foot of her bed with her phone, setting alarms or replying to texts or who knows what.

He plays around with the idea of texting her now, just to see what she would do. Would she text him back? Or would she take her lower lip between her teeth, the way she sometimes does, before biting down ever so softly, and pretend to not see the message? His curiosity is not enough to make him do it, of course. At this time of night, even golden boy Adrien should be in bed, resting up for the exam he has in the morning. It would be too strange for him to be awake, for him to even assume that she’s awake.

It doesn’t matter, anyway. His interest has dulled, now that he’s seen the state of her aftermath for himself. For a month, he’s been privy to it, and tonight was placing the final piece in the middle of the puzzle. Loathe as he is to admit it, Chloé was right all along. They did know what became of Marinette Dupain-Cheng after that night. She became a scared, scarred, almost pitiful version of herself. She hides from the truth of it all, and he steadily loses his excitement over this, over her.

“Yeah, Plagg,” he says, nearly ten minutes after the initial question. “I’ve seen enough.”

* * *

He sits beside Sabrina in physics that Friday. She looks on at him in surprise, and throws a look to Marinette. He doesn’t follow her gaze; he already knows exactly what he’ll see, if he does. Sea green eyes flit back to him, and she looks so horribly unimpressed. “You’re pathetic.”

“Oh?” He pulls out his pen, and starts writing down what’s on the board. “Chloé would love to hear that. She loves being right.”

A soft scoff breezes past her lips, almost a laugh, but too cruel to be anything of the sort. “Don’t I know it.”

Class passes in relative silence. Adrien says nothing to Marinette, doesn’t so much as throw a glance her way, and she doesn’t try to grab his attention. There are no texts waiting from him after class. None from Marinette, or Nino, or Alya.

He wonders who’s ignoring who, exactly.

Marinette leaves first. She brushes past Chloé, who waits at the door with bored eyes. Her eyes don’t follow Marinette out the door, even as she walks past. Those blue eyes that have chased Adrien his entire life stare after him now, waiting for him and Sabrina to hurry up. “Well? Are we going or what?”

He plasters on a smile that he knows she sees right through, and crosses the room to her. She and Sabrina chat as they head outside. Sabrina’s driving today. She’s the only one of them that _does_ drive. Adrien’s father would never let him, and Chloé doesn’t see the point of doing what she pays someone else to do. But Sabrina doesn’t come from big money, the way they do. Her dad is a cop, and her mom is out of the picture.

(A common theme for people like them. Parents don’t stick around, and they have a million and three reasons why. Marc was the only exception for a long time, then came Marinette, and Nino, and Alya—)

With a press of a button, her car doors unlock, and Adrien slides himself into the backseat. He tunes out their idle chatter, not giving a damn about the latest gossip in the convoluted world they live in, or what Lila has done to get herself cut off this time. His mind travels, to Chloé, to Queen Bee, to Chat Noir, to Marinette Dupain-Cheng, to the lack of questions in his phone.

It leaves a bad taste in his mouth. For her to so easily accept the man who’s supposed to be her friend ignoring her out of the blue — no one should do that. She should be angry, should be hurt, should be demanding an explanation. But she isn’t. She didn’t wait around to talk after class, didn’t try to catch his attention. She let it be, and that’s enough to crack the nonchalance that’s settled over him.

Dammit.

* * *

He swears he’s done with Marinette Dupain-Cheng.

He still texts Nino, sometimes hangs out with Alya, exchanges very few words with Marinette. If they know, they don’t say anything. He doubts they _do_ know, because Alya isn’t the type to keep her opinions to herself, and Nino wouldn’t hesitate to call him out over his behavior, either. If they knew he was deliberately giving Marinette the cold shoulder, they would intervene in one way or the other. He knows that Marinette hasn’t told them, and frankly? That’s not his business. If she wants to let people walk over her, step into her life and right back out without a word, then that’s hardly his problem.

He got what he wanted from her, and it’s all he needs. But.

_But._

He finds himself back on this perch ever so often. Even as the days of radio silence turn into weeks, turn into two full months, and the air grows brisk in the night, he brings himself back to this same spot. He’s memorized her nightly routine, has it down to an _art_. He still can’t tell the shapes and sizes of the scars that decorate her body, but he can tell you where every single one is, and can tell you how long they all are. He learns what movements are easy, and which ones bring her pain. He watches time and again as her hand seizes up, an inaudible gasp ripping itself from her throat as she curls in on herself, shaking through the pain.

Not once does he see her cry, but he’s seen her get close enough.

Now that she has an excuse to cover herself from head to toe, she seems less awkward about doing so. She puts thicker blankets on her bed, burying herself beneath them night after night.

Perhaps that’s the most frustrating part about Marinette. She doesn’t _change._ She doesn’t grow. She’s taken her mutilated state as an irrefutable truth, and she doesn’t try to adapt to it, doesn’t try to make peace with it. She hides from it, avoiding mirrors and balking at chances to show off even an inch of skin.

She stays burrowed in that sunken place of self-pity, and it almost _disgusts him._

But he’s here, once or twice a week. To his credit, he successfully managed to go an entire week without coming to see her, then came right back, as if being away from her starved him. The past week has felt so _dull_ without his stakeouts. Even if they’re always the same, always fruitless, he gets a thrill from them. In the untouchable depths of himself, he can admit that this is his comfort, his _sanity._ Marinette’s misery is a play put on just for him, and he can’t help but come back to watch again and again. He can’t help but wait for a change he knows won’t come.

He watches as she repeats the motions of every other night. Drops her robe, slides on clothes that leave nothing to be seen, takes care of those last few things before bed. He lies on top of the stop light, tail swinging lazily through the air beneath him. He’ll leave soon. She’ll shut off the lights soon, then crawl into bed, and he’ll be far, far away from this. The last few minutes are no more interesting than the rest of this routine, but he sticks around to watch.

The swinging of his tail freezes when she does. Her back is still to him, but there’s a rigidness in her that he doesn’t recognize. It’s not like the times when her joints lock up. For one thing, she’s not collapsing in pain, or biting her own hand to keep from crying out. For another, the stillness is _different._ It’s not so much agonized, it’s—

 _Kid,_ Plagg starts to say, but Adrien doesn’t hear another word.

Marinette abruptly whips around, her eyes landing right on him. He freezes, not even daring to breathe as she stares at him through the darkness. No, that’s impossible. It has to be, right? His suit is pitch black; it’s impossible to see in this darkness.

(But his _hair_ , he thinks. His hair, and those green eyes.)

He holds his breath, waiting for — a word, a cry, any sort of reaction. But nothing comes. Marinette stares right back at him, eyes narrow and head tipped. He still doesn’t move, not even when he starts to get the feeling she _doesn’t_ see him. But that doesn’t explain…

 _We need to leave,_ Plagg advises. _Now, kid._

“Or what? She’ll call the cops?” His voice is quiet. Despite his coolness, he won’t risk her actually acting on whatever impulse comes to her.

_Worse._

Oh?

“How?”

For the first time, Plagg doesn’t share his opinions.

Finally, Marinette looks away. She throws another glance out the window, and he _knows_ she can’t see him, but it still feels like some sort of warning glare. There’s not a doubt in his mind that she knows he’s there. (How long has she known? _How_ does she know?) And Plagg’s cryptic _worse_ only serves to build the fire rekindling in Adrien’s stomach. That yawning, deplorable lust that he never really got rid of in the first place.

The smile that forms on his lips is all too reminiscent of his father’s. That should scare him more than it does, but all he feels right now is a renewed curiosity. “Marinette Dupain-Cheng,” he whispers, as she flicks off her light and gets into bed. “Just who are you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to everyone who kudo'd, commented, bookmarked and/or subscribed! it means everything to me to know that people like this. again, feel free to hit me up on tumblr if you wanna talk. either way, hope you enjoyed!
> 
> next chapter preview—
>
>> The problem is that she’s curious. The worst part of it all is that. She wants answers that she knows she’ll never get, about why he’s here, why he’s so interested in her, what she did to deserve it, _do you know,_ why, why, why.
>> 
>> And curiosity _kills,_ doesn’t it?


	3. the fault, dear brutus.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you ignore the bags beneath her eyes, and the upraised skin that runs past her collar, she almost looks like your average, healthy twenty-year-old.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *sips tea* ...i got two words for you: election season. cheers, mate.

“So I’m thinking—” Nino tries for casual, tossing a grape in his mouth. It’s a miracle he doesn’t choke on it, seeing as he _always_ chokes. “It’s been, what, three months since we met Adrien?”

“I think so,” Marinette confirms, as if Adrien has said more than five words to her in that time. She can’t explain his sudden coldness, and she certainly hasn’t brought it up to him, or to her friends. She’s resigned to it, she thinks. Everyone abandons Marinette in one way or the other. At least he didn’t dig his hole too deep into her life; at least she can survive without whatever they had, because it wasn’t much to begin with. “You were thinking?”

“Maybe we should invite him to lip sync nights.”

As if cued, Marinette and Alya both pause. They exchange gazes, then look back to Nino. “Babe, we haven’t had one of those—” Marinette doesn’t miss the hesitant glance Alya throws her way. “—in a while.”

“And even if we did…” Marinette’s fingers pinch the hem of today’s cardigan, nerves bundling up tight beneath her skin. “It’s kind of sacred. Do you think we should do it? Or that he’d even be interested?”

“It’s not that sacred,” Nino argues, though they all know it’s a lie. They started lip sync nights back in elementary school, when none of them could remember the words to the songs in their favorite musicals. It’s been tradition ever since — _their_ tradition. It’s not just the four of them, either. It’s the entirety of their group— Kim, Alix, Juleka, Rose, Max, Nathanaël, and Luka all deserve to be in on this decision, too. It’s been _their_ thing for so long, is it even right to add someone else to that? Nino lets out a sigh, leaning his elbows heavily against the uncomfortable table. “He needs friends, ya know? And, _yeah_ , he has us, but he’s not really one of us, if we leave him out of everything except our lunch dates.”

Alya bites the straw of her drink, a pinched expression on her face. If there’s one thing Marinette can confidently say about her best friend, she doesn’t let her relationships determine her opinion. She’s just as likely to disagree with Nino, as she is to agree. The lack of certainty leaves Marinette and Nino on edge, neither quite knowing what will come of it, and no one waiting on Marinette’s answer. In the end, she will only follow Alya, after all. Finally, the reporter releases the straw. “Mention it in the group chat first,” she demands, leaving no room for arguments. “And if they’re all okay with it, then we’ll invite him over next weekend.”

“Next weekend?” Marinette’s expression twists in confusion. “Isn’t that a little sudden?”

Alya shrugs. “I miss it. And if we do it next weekend, it can be just the four of us. And maybe when he’s warmed up a little, we can bring it back in full swing, don’t you think?”

Nino’s grin stretches wide enough to cover the planet, blinding and radiant. “Exactly! Have I mentioned lately that I love your brain?”

With a loving sort of smile on her face, Alya tosses a grape at him. “Only when I agree with you.”

“And what does that say about _my_ brain?”

“Do you really want me to answer that?”

* * *

  ** _edgar allan pole dancers_**

 **nino:** okay ladies i have an idea

 **alix:** god, not again

 **max:** do not

 **luka:** mmm i’m gonna go ahead and give it a hard ‘no’

 **nino:** WOW

 **nino:** imagine a world where y’all were nice???

 **alya:** unrealistic

 **kim:** blocked

 **nino:** one day, you will all wish you’d treated me better

 **nathanaël:** say that again when you’re rich, and we might believe it

 **nino:** i hate you all

 **nino:** not you, rose. you’re an angel, and i’m thrilled you’re here

 **kim:** MOOD

 **alix:** MOOD

 **rose:** <3

 **rose:** i love you!!!

 **alix:** oh ya nino what’s ur bad idea

 **nino:** first of all, let’s kill the idea that my ideas are bad

 **nino:** second, you guys know adrien agreste, right??

 **juleka:** we know of him

 **nino:** perfect! he’s my new best friend, and i want to invite him to lip sync nights, y/y/n/n

 **luka:** i don’t think y/y/n/n is an actual thing, but

 **luka:** wait what

* * *

Beneath the gum-stuck desk of her chair, Marinette watches as confused texts flood the group chat. Nino and Alya explain it all from the beginning — and even Marinette laughs at the reminder that Nino was _paid_ to befriend the model — all the way until they reach Nino’s reasoning, and his plan for lip sync nights.

There’s unease and hesitance, but Marinette knew there would be. It isn’t at all that their group is unwelcoming. Alya and Luka were both rather late to join the group, with Alya transferring in during high school, and Luka never giving his sister’s friends the time of day until a little later that same year. They have no trouble accepting people, even if it’s just one person vouching for them, but changing tradition isn’t easy.

But Marinette knows them all like she knows the spots on Ladybug’s suit. Their acquiescence comes as no surprise to her. She puts her phone down, not having the heart to watch them celebrate, or witness Nino scheme to get her mom to bake them extra stuff for free, as if she doesn’t always.

Lip sync nights almost always happen at the Dupain-Cheng residence. If the bakery wasn’t enough of a draw for her suspiciously starved friends, the warmth of her parents’ love always has been. “No one’s house is quite like yours,” Luka told her one night, back in senior year. They were lying on her bed, the rest of the crew screeching downstairs. Her back was pressed against his chest, her head stopping just beneath his chin, as she fooled around on her phone, the picture of ease. His hand rubbed small circles onto her stomach, and she giggled a little, teasingly reminding him that she didn’t have a stomach ache. He flicked her hip, and she could hear the smile in his voice when he next spoke. “It’s like… I don’t know. All of our parents love us, but no one loves like your parents do.”

It felt like an honor back then, to be tied to such beautiful people. Even now, it does. She’s touched that they still love her family, still love her home enough to not even consider a different venue. But alongside that pride comes dread.

Her pen scratches against her paper, jotting down notes to distract herself from the problem she’s yet to address.

Mentioning the eyes outside her window would be a good idea right about now. But of course, she doesn’t.

* * *

It’s not every night, she’ll give them that.

When she first noticed it, about a month and some days ago, the first thing she’d done was panic. The eyes didn’t follow her when the lights went off, and that was when she felt the fear. It circled her neck like a noose, and she hugged Tikki to her chest, desperately needing the safety and comfort that came with being in arm’s reach of a god. Once the panic passed, and she remembered that she wasn’t defenseless—

(She wasn’t, she _isn’t_ , wasn’t, what’s the difference?)

—she’d started paying more attention. Without alerting Tikki to the danger, she asked the kwami to stay awake with her for a few extra hours. When they came back to the window, she would slip down to the bathroom, transform, and let Ladybug deal with it.

But they didn’t show. Not that night, or the next, or any other night for the rest of the week. When they showed up again, the panic struck like it did for the first time, and she found herself unable to put her plan into action.

Embarrassingly enough, it happened every single time they showed up. As much as she told herself, _I’ll be ready next time_ , the staggered, unpredictable visits threw her off every time. By the time she thought she was ready, it would be of no use.

By the tenth visit, she stopped being afraid. If the eyes were malicious, something would have happened by now. Evil doesn’t bide its time.

On the night of the thirteenth visit, the support group runs an hour late. Myléne sits in the seat beside Marinette, wringing her hands in her lap. Marinette doesn’t know what the official diagnosis on her is yet, or if there even _is_ one. Everyone in the circle has something, some sort of damage done to their psyche that they can’t fix. Myléne is, at the very least, the most anxious person Marinette has ever met. Her heel bounces against the cement floor, leg brushing against Marinette’s.

Bored and a little brave, Marinette rests a hand on Myléne’s. She doesn’t blame her for jumping. Marinette doesn’t do well with _expected_ physicality, let alone unexpected— let alone from someone she doesn’t really know. But they’ve been in this group together for about five months, and Marinette knows Myléne’s struggle almost as well as she knows her own, so she slips a smile onto her face. “Are you okay?” She whispers.

Myléne throws a cautious look to the victim — no, survivor, they want to be called _survivors_ — who has the floor, gnawing on her bottom lip. It comes out red and abused when she shrugs. “Just… anxious. I don’t—” She pauses abruptly. She looks at Marinette with curious but hesitant eyes. “Does this help you?”

Someone sneezes on the other side of Marinette, and the room fills with a round of barely audible _bless you’s_ and a stuffy _thanks._ Fingers drawing invisible circles on her jean-clad knee, Marinette considers the question. “…I don’t really know, Myléne.” _No. It doesn’t help, but I never thought it would._ “Does it help you?”

Myléne’s gaze drops to her lap. She freezes, then nods. “Sometimes? Not all the time. Sometimes, it just feels like — like I’m living it over and over again for no reason. Like I’m making it worse by telling the story. Isn’t—”

“Marinette? Myléne?”

The two girls — anxious and paranoid, the both of them — flinch. “Yes, Mademoiselle?”

For all that she could be upset, Bustier’s eyes are as open and kind as ever, if not a little disapproving. “I understand that some things are better discussed privately, but please try not to speak while others have the floor.”

Like scolded children, they hunch their shoulders and dip their heads with murmurs of, “Yes, ma’am.”

It’s half an hour later, when the session has ended — ten minutes after it should have, but Marinette’s not petty enough to _count_ — that Marinette realizes she never heard the end of Myléne’s question. It could have been any number of things, and her curiosity urges her to find out. Halfway to the door, she slows to a stop, then looks around. Myléne hasn’t left yet. She’s talking to someone — a guy with black hair and black fingernail polish, spiked bands on his wrists. As punk goth as he dresses, he seems to curl into himself, the same way Myléne does. The same way Marinette does.

She starts to walk towards them, no clear goal in mind. She wants to hear the end of the question, but what after that? Talk to the boy? Get their numbers? Her father would want her to, she thinks. Support groups aren’t meant for making friends, but isn’t that — isn’t it best if she _does?_ She can at least try. It won’t hurt to try, right?

Twenty feet away from her destination, a human-sized roadblock gets in her way. Her first impression is _who likes yellow that much?_ Her hair is blonde, cascading down her shoulders in thick curls, drawing eyes down to the yellow crop top she wears, paired with white pants, and flats. It’s cute and casual, but Marinette wouldn’t be much of a designer if she couldn’t tell on sight that the outfit cost more than she makes at the bakery in a month. And the shoes—

“ _Ahem._ ” Marinette’s eyes snap back up to the blonde’s face. And it’s a little horrible of her, but it’s the perpetual frown that makes her recognizable as Adrien’s friend. Cleo, or something? “My eyes are up here.”

Marinette has never felt _so unimpressed_ in _so little time._ “I’m… aware?”

In direct contradiction to her own words, the blonde’s eyes travel up and down her figure. She has the type of critical gaze that leaves Marinette shifting awkwardly on her feet. It feels far too much like she’s being judged, or tested for something she didn’t study for. She feels all too self-conscious for her own good, but she’s not sure if that’s the other’s fault or not.

“I don’t know what he sees in you.”

The words are hurtful, but Marinette doesn’t get the impression that they’re _meant_ to be. No, Chloé — it was Chloé, right? — doesn’t strike her as the type to sugarcoat things or hold back, but she didn’t seem to be aiming for pain. It almost felt as if Marinette wasn’t supposed to hear the words. Regardless, Marinette isn’t too sure what to make of the statement. “That’s a little harsh,” she mutters, crossing her arms over her chest. “Who are you even talking about?”

Chloé’s eyes meet hers, a lack of humor in the look. “Who do you think?”

“…Adrien?” She almost laughs at that. “Adrien doesn’t see anything in me. He doesn’t even talk to me.”

“He doesn’t have to.”

“Yeah, I know that.” Marinette sighs. Where is this conversation supposed to be going? “Look, Chloé, if you’re worried about me making a move on your boyfriend, I won’t. We’re barely friends, and even if we were, I’m not interested in him like that, and he’s not interested in me.”

Something flickers in Chloé’s eyes at the sound of her name, but Marinette fails to identify what that something in. In the end, it doesn’t seem to matter, anyway. Chloé’s smile is a chilling, empty, gradual spread across her face. “You only wish that were true, Marinette Dupain-Cheng.”

* * *

She’s home by the time she realizes she never caught up with Myléne.

Her conversation with Chloé threw her off in a way she can’t explain. Whether it was the cruel curl of her lips, or the lack of insecurity in her words. Marinette wasn’t lying — she isn’t interested in Adrien. She might have been, back when they shared a class, and he actually _talked to her_ , and it felt like she was making a friend. Back when he smiled at her, and her heart would race as red filled her cheeks, and he would remain oblivious. Maybe _then_ she felt something for him, for the model that threw her off guard, but things had changed, and she’d gotten over her infatuation rather quickly.

But Chloé seemed so sure that things were different. It shouldn’t matter what a girl she doesn’t even know thinks of her, of the non-existent relationship she has with Adrien, but it set her off-balance, and _she has no idea why._

“Marinette?” Tikki appears before her face, wide eyes blinking curiously at her. “Are you okay? You seem out of it tonight.”

It’s instinct to smile at the small being. “I’m okay, Tikki. Group just took a lot out of me.”

Tikki’s expression dims. “It was that girl, wasn’t it? I can’t believe she’d talk to you like that.”

With a quiet chuckle, Marinette cups her hands in front of her, the kwami landing in the safety of her hold. “It doesn’t bother me,” she lies, laying a gentle kiss to her forehead. “Some people aren’t nice or welcoming. There’s no point in being sad over it, right?” Her smile wavers, until it progressively vanishes. “It does make me wonder, though.”

“About Adrien?” Tikki frowns. “What about him?”

She gets like that. Marinette can never understand why, but whenever Adrien comes up in conversation, Tikki gets — not _hostile,_ because she doesn’t quite have that in her, but _prickly._ As if one misspoken word will set her off; a handheld bomb with no obvious trigger or countdown. Marinette would ask why, but she doesn’t know if she wants to hear the answer. The _he abandoned you_ , _haven’t enough people hurt you?_ Or _he shouldn’t have gotten your hopes up like that._ Or—

She doesn’t ask.

“Why Chloé thinks he’s so interested in me,” tumbles from her lips instead, quiet and half-true. “Or why he suddenly—”

She’d rather not ask that, either.

Her eyes flit to the clock, then away. “We should go to bed, Tikki.”

“Marinette?”

She tunes her own conversation out from that point on. Her excuse is something along the lines of _I’m working in the bakery in the morning_ , and there’s truth in that, so she doesn’t feel bad about it. She steps into her pajamas as Tikki settles into her bed, small, hand-crafted, and tucked away just above Marinette’s. Her eyes drift back to the clock every so often, tracking the time as the sky grows darker. He usually shows up in about, what, an hour from now?

Slim fingers switch off the bedroom’s main light, and she flicks on her desk lamp. She busies herself with the latest in her series of designs she’ll never send to Gabriel Agreste.

There are forty minutes left, and Tikki’s sound asleep. It’s dark enough in her corner of the room that the light doesn’t bother her. Or, if it does, she’s too tired to let it deter her. She sleeps with an ease that Marinette envies but would never begrudge.

Thirty-seven—

“Dammit.” The pencil falls to the desk, and she chokes back a gasp. The pain is fleeting, here and gone, but the ghost of it is enough to leave her frustrated, tearful, _angry._ She takes the knuckle of her thumb between her teeth, biting down until she has another pain to focus on, something controllable. Blood paints her lips an ugly color when she pulls away, and it’s another thing to file under _secrets to be buried._

Twenty-nine—

She creeps downstairs, using the bathroom before making her way to the kitchen. With the bakery closed for the night, and her parents sleeping on the floor below, an unfitting silence permeates their home. After nearly a year, she’s used to the silences now. She makes quick work of finding herself something to eat, a leftover muffin and some hot chocolate, then carefully carries her snack upstairs, closing the door behind her.

Fourteen—

The hot chocolate burns its way down her throat, leaving the muffin tasteless on her tongue. It disappears in small bites and in between strokes of a pencil, black smearing against the side of her hands as she brushes crumbs off of the design. The drink is a constant source of distraction, scorching away her taste buds, chasing down everything that came before.

Three minutes ‘til, the light starts to hurt her eyes. Any excuse is good enough to push her out of her seat. Turning the lamp off, she climbs the ladder to her bed, and spares Tikki a quick glance before making her way up to the balcony.

The air feels cold when it hits, but only because it’s something unexpected. Her body adjusts, goosebumps disappearing from covered skin. She leans against the railing, staring out at the water, above it, around it. If she remembers correctly, his usual haunt is—

He lands on deft feet, soundless in his perfection. Her head tips curiously as she observes him. Somehow, he hasn’t noticed her yet. His eyes are on her window, a realization that doesn’t come with _surprise_ , but something equally disquieting. The distance between her balcony and the light pole is nothing great, but it makes it impossible to make out his exact features.

_— not that she needs to, not like she hasn’t memorized them, hasn’t dreamt about them—_

Even so, she can see the curve of his lips moving as he speaks to no one at all. Or maybe not to no one, she muses. Maybe to his kwami. Maybe to Queen Bee. To anyone that isn’t Ladybug, that is.

A frown tugs at the corners of his mouth as he watches and waits for something, and she almost allows herself a smirk. It’s a terrible thing, to be smug in the face of abject danger, but confidence isn’t something she dabbles in, most days. Shouldn’t she be allowed this one moment of it, even for something so hilariously stupid? Something so fleeting?

As if to prove her thoughts, emerald eyes snap up to hers, and for the first time, there’s no denying that she knows he’s there.

His wide-eyed stare would be comical in another time, another life, another situation, but it’s all she can do not to match it. Her only advantage is that she _wanted this._ But—

He’s the one who’s been creeping out her window for weeks on end. Shouldn’t she—

It’s only right that—

Uncertainty worms its way through her system, making itself at home in its usual spot. Too much time passes with them staring at each other, and it dawns on her that she didn’t think past this point. Past the shock of catching him in the act, didn’t think—

_What now?_

She falters, gaze dropping to the cool railing beneath her hands. She should leave. She could go back into her room, where it’s safe. Chat Noir is a lot of things, not all of them good, but he’s yet to add breaking and entering to his list of misdeeds. The city still sees good in him. He’s still their savior, and isn’t that worth something? Would he risk his reputation on _her?_

(Aside from what he’s already done, that is.)

(But that’s _her_ secret, their secret, something to stay hidden far, far, _far_ beneath.)

The problem is that she’s curious. The worst part of it all is _that._ She wants answers that she knows she’ll never get, about why he’s here, why he’s so interested in her, what she did to deserve it, _do you know,_ why, why, why.

And curiosity _kills_ , doesn’t it?

She sucks in air through her lips, and when she looks up, the space before her is hauntingly empty.

* * *

This whole thing is rather anticlimactic. Almost a week after Nino’s suggestion, the four of them meet in the bakery, like they haven’t done in a long time. Most days, it’s just Nino and Adrien, or the boys and Alya, or any combination of people that suspiciously doesn’t include Marinette. When she _is_ there, it’s for some awkward lunch that’s anywhere else, or for a group study session.

Whatever doesn’t involve Adrien directly talking to Marinette.

For the first time in two months, he sits within touching distance of her. If she looks up from the plate of cookies on the table, she’d be staring right at him. She elects to look at the table instead, sometimes greeting customers from her seat. Because she worked the morning shift, her parents _insisted_ she take the rest of the day off. Any attempts to get up and help are met with a sharp look, and _your friends are here, you can relax_ , and she tries to feel loved instead of pushed aside.

Nino, Alya, and Adrien carry on conversation without her, something full of bickering and inside jokes. There’s a sting beneath her skin, a sharp sense of _unwanted_ that she ignores. She bites into another cookie, and tells herself that she’s sitting this conversation out because she _wants_ to.

If familiar eyes glance at her across the table, she’s too preoccupied to notice.

The clearing of Alya’s throat breaks up the monotony of the moment. “So, Adrien,” she says as de facto leader. “We’ve been thinking, and we figured now that the four of us are close, you might be more comfortable doing more stuff with us.”

“Stuff that isn’t just eating or studying,” Nino says around the cookie he shoved into his mouth. Marinette rolls her eyes at him, only to let out an indignant squeak when he leans towards her, mouth gaping open.

Alya scowls, swatting Nino’s shoulder. “Would you two pay attention? This was _your_ idea!”

Adrien’s gaze skips around the table, resting on Marinette for a second too long, before he looks at Alya, a nervous but playful edge to his grin. “What, am I finally being invited to your weekly sleepovers?”

“Yeah, basically.”

Nino lets out a snort. “Dude, it’s not as weird as it sounds. We camp out in Marinette’s living room, lip sync to whatever corny playlist we choose for the night, eat whatever the bakery doesn’t sell, and pass out during B-rated movies.” He pauses, thinking back on what he just said. “Maybe it is as weird as it sounds.”

Marinette nudges Nino. “It’s a long-standing tradition,” she adds, because they’ll think it’s weird if she doesn’t say _something._ It’s— disconcerting, having Adrien’s eyes on her again. But some part of it feels good. Like she _exists_ again. “We’ve been doing it since we were kids, and it’s… pretty important to us.” She sees in his eyes that he gets the message, loud and clear.

_It’s everything to them, and they want you there, so don’t make light of it._

_Inviting you is a big deal, so don’t brush them off._

His eyes are still on hers when he nods, and she finally looks away. “It sounds like a big deal.” When she risks a glance up at him again, he’s looking at Alya, a smile on his face. “Alright. I’ll be there.”

Nino perks up. “Really? Sweet!” He pumps his fist in the air, as if Adrien agreeing to hang out with them is some hard-earned victory, and not as easy as breathing.

Alya’s phone rings, catching their attention. She leans over to read the caller id, and curses. “It’s my boss, I have to go. Adrien, it’s this Friday, and we’ll— dammit, hold on—”

“Go,” Adrien urges her. “I’ll get the details from someone else.”

With a grateful smile, and rushed goodbyes, Alya blows out of the bakery like a summer breeze. It prompts Nino to look at his own phone, a gesture followed by a pained groan. “I have to get going, too. I still haven’t started on that paper for Mendeleiev, and my parents will throttle me if I don’t get this one turned in.”

Marinette’s gaze is unsympathetic. “That paper I told you to start on last week?”

“I don’t remember that.”

Adrien laughs, familiar and foreign. “We’ll talk to you later, Nino.”

“Now I’m getting kicked out? _Wow._ After you invite a guy into your secret circle, too.”

There’s more huffing and puffing before he finally steps outside, leaving Marinette and Adrien alone. In the sea of people pushing and pressing against each other in the midday rush, they feel so incredibly, horribly, awkwardly… alone.

Marinette only looks at him once, and it’s enough to make her look away again. His gaze lacks all of the weird tension that she expected to see. He doesn’t look uncomfortable, or upset, or disappointed, just— curious. Curiosity isn’t enough to end a friendship, but he did anyway, so she mutters an _excuse me_ , and gets up from the table, preparing to work or sleep or do _anything_ that takes her away from this.

“Wait, Marinette!” A hand closes around her wrist, fingers pressing against her pulse. She hesitates to look back at him, but when she does, his eyes are damn near pleading. “I,” he starts, before snapping his mouth shut. “Go somewhere with me.”

* * *

The first thing Adrien does after retrieving their ice cream is blurt out an, “I’m sorry.”

Marinette licks along the side of her multi-flavored swirl, stalling without making it obvious. “What for?” Part of that is playing dumb, which she isn’t proud of, but the rest of it is rooted in the desire to _not talk about this._

The look he slants at her is knowing and unimpressed. “For being such an ass.” He drops onto the bench beside her, the foot of space between them feeling like an ocean. “Giving you the cold shoulder for the past few weeks…”

 _Months,_ she wants to say. _Past few months._ But she’s not the type to throw someone’s apology in their face. Still, she wonders if he knows he doesn’t need to be _her_ friend in order to attend the sleepover on Friday. Nino and Alya adore him, and that’s enough for Marinette to put aside her own discomfort.

“You don’t have to apologize for that, Adrien.” He looks _disappointed_ when she says that, but what else is she to say? She shakes her head. “I’m not saying it was okay, but I’m not asking for an explanation, either.” She wants to. She won’t. “Just… don’t do it again? If you don’t want to be friends, tell—”

“I do,” he interrupts. “More than anything, Marinette, I…” Adrien’s eyes fall to his lap, and his cheeks grow a little darker. “I want to be your friend. For real, this time.”

 _For real, this time._ What does that even entail? She can’t imagine things go back to the way they were. Their class together ends next week, so there’s no sitting next to each other, making jokes about the dull lessons, and sharing notes. There’s no time left for study sessions, or post-class lunches. Whatever comes next is something altogether new, a byproduct of all the time thrown away that they can’t get back.

She doesn’t know what _for real, this time_ even means, but Adrien says it as though the fate of the world hinges on her answer, and he looks genuinely apologetic, so it’s all too easy for—

“Your ice cream is melting.” He blinks at the non-sequitur, and she laughs. True to her word, his hands are growing sticky from the delicacy dripping down his fingers. She holds out one of her napkins to him, a smile spreading across her lips. “Let’s be friends, Adrien. For real, this time.”

* * *

Jagged bursts into tears when she tells him.

The bags under Penny’s eyes look a little heavier as she rubs her temples. “Jag—” Seemingly giving up on whatever she has to say, she digs out a box of tissues and holds them out to him. “I’m glad everything is working out, Marinette.”

The girl in question hums around the needle caught between her lips. Carefully lining up the seams of her current creation, she leans back to examine it for any mistakes or unevenness. When she comes up empty, she takes the needle from her mouth, and goes back to stitching. It’s tiring and time-consuming to do this by hand, but her sewing machine is broken, and she hasn’t had the chance to buy a new one. “But?” She prompts, glancing at Penny.

“I didn’t say there was a ‘but.’”

Marinette pauses in her movements, giving Penny a pointed look.

The woman’s shoulders fall slightly. “I don’t want this boy to hurt you.”

“ _Penny—_ ”

“I know—”

“He won’t hurt me. He says he really wants to give it a try this time.” She continues sewing, though it’s about time for her to take a break. Jagged won’t need this jacket for another week, but she would rather get it done now. Focus on the jacket, instead of everything she _can’t_ stitch together.

She can still feel Penny’s gaze on her, heavy and concerned. “Most people have that mindset the first time. If they do it once, there’s nothing to stop them from doing it again.” There’s a pause, silence dragging on uncomfortably, before she sighs. “I don’t mean to upset you, Marinette.”

“I’m not—” Her hands are shaking. Not because they’re tensing up, but because _she’s_ tense. Dammit. She breathes in deep. “I’m not upset, Penny. But I don’t want to go into this doubting him, you know? Then it won’t matter what his intentions are, because I’ll be poisoning us from the start.”

“Wait.” Jagged pokes his tearstained face over Penny’s shoulder. “Are you dating this boy? I thought he was just your friend!”

A laugh bubbles its way up Marinette’s throat, and she can’t hold it in. “He is! But I guess this _does_ sound like we’re dating, huh?” She giggles again, and something warm and pleased spreads through her chest when she sees the smile pulling at Penny’s lips.

“Adrien Agreste is a good kid,” Penny concedes, gently nudging Jagged out of her space. He only clings harder, arms circling around her waist. Knowing it’s a lost battle, she settles to ignore him, and keeps her eyes on Marinette. “We’ve worked with him and his father in the past. While Gabriel’s personality… leaves much to be desired, Adrien’s not like him. He’s sweet, if not a little oppressed.”

She considers asking about that whole _oppressed_ thing, before ultimately deciding against it. “But you’ll kill him if he hurts me?” She jokes.

Penny’s smile is razor sharp and severely lacking in humor. “Gladly.”

* * *

The bathroom here is ridiculous in the way that could only be expected of rich people.

It’s an expansive design, stretching further than her room. The floors are covered with brown tiles, the same pale color that coats the walls, only slightly lighter than the high ceiling. Sparkling mirrors sit above the counters on two opposing walls, the others hosting a mahogany door and a tall window, sandwiched by billowing drapes and abstract painting. A steel bathtub rests beneath the window, spotless and gleaming beside the decorated table placed in the corner. The proverbial icing on the cake is the candlelit chandelier above the tub.

The first time Marinette walked into it, she gawked at it for five minutes then laughed so hard, she nearly peed on herself. And that was _before_ she realized it was only the guest bathroom. She has no doubt that some outsider designed it, considering it isn’t Penny _or_ Jagged’s style. It’s impressive in a way that neither of them cares about, but others do, which must have been reason enough for them to keep it.

Standing in it now, almost six years after the first time she ever stepped in this house, she barely notices the oddness of it. It feels familiar, the way her own bathroom does. According to Penny, it _is_ her bathroom — unofficially. It’s her spare makeup bag that rests in the bin beneath the cabinet, and her extra toothbrush in the medicine cabinet, and her sewing material often on the counter. A lot of rooms are hers — unofficially. There’s a blanket on a _chaise_ upstairs with her name stitched onto the corner, a little ways away from the bed that she takes her naps on, and a curling iron that no one uses but her. She has three boxes of her favorite cereals in the kitchen, and the list of allergies written on the fridge includes her own, just as the list of emergency numbers ends with hers.

If anyone told fourteen-year-old Marinette that she would one day spend enough time in Jagged Stone’s house that she would be the unofficial fourth resident, there’s no _way_ she would have believed them.

Fang lies on the floor behind her, dozing off on the cool tile, as she tugs her sweater off. She pries the elastics out of her hair and runs her fingers through the tangled strands. Her eyes shift up from the counter without meaning to, and her hands slow. The picture in front of her is a far cry from who she was six years ago, or who she was one year ago. It’s one of those sad things that everyone blames on _growing up_ and _shit happens_ , so as to not think about what _actually_ happened.

 _Shit happens_ , and it’s why she’s traded self-made clothes and confidence for baggy clothes and shifty eyes. It feels like a bad joke — feels like a horrible cop out.

She rips her gaze from her reflection and pulls her brush from the drawer. Her stomach swims as she roughly brushes her hair into a more manageable state, so she focuses on anything and everything else. Fang snores, his back rising menacingly, before falling slowly and peacefully. Crumbs litter the counter from the cookie Tikki feasts on, and it has a special way of calming Marinette.

 _Shit happens,_ but she still has to clean up after her kwami-might-be-an-ancient-god of a best friend, and there’s an alligator sleeping on the floor five feet away from her.

A chortle jumps from her lips, and she presses the back of her hand to her mouth to smother a laugh. Tikki gives her a curious look, but she shakes her head. She wouldn’t be able to explain the humor in that if she _tried._

She sets the brush down, taking a look at her reflection without thinking too deeply about it. It’s tempting to leave her hair down, the way she always does nowadays. If there’s any place she’s comfortable pulling it up, it would be here. It’s been up all day, really — an admirable achievement for her. That’s progress, isn’t it? Bustier would be _proud._

She picks up an elastic and pulls her hair back into a loose ponytail at the base of her neck. It bounces against her back when she gives herself a satisfied nod, the dark color nearly blending into the blackness of her t-shirt. If you ignore the bags beneath her eyes, and the upraised skin that runs past her collar, she almost looks like your average, healthy twenty-year-old.

Healthy-adjacent.

Or something like that.

Her fingers twitch as she considers doing her makeup. She doesn’t do it much anymore, out of a lack of need and desire. Would she feel better, if she did? Feel pretty, feel sane, feel—

Normal.

Somewhat put together.

The decision makes itself. Her feet shuffle backward to give herself room as she bends down. She retrieves the makeup bag from the cabinet beneath the sink, plopping it down on the counter. Even as her fingers work the zipper undone, she’s clueless as to what to do from here. She stares at the cocktail of compacts and brushes and palettes, none of them sticking out to her.

She’s done her makeup a thousand times, knows her routine the same way she knows her name, but it lacks the allure that she so desperately craves. Perhaps she’d feel better if—

_If, if, if—_

Tikki lifts the primer from the bag, pressing it into Marinette’s hand. “You always start with this, don’t you?” She prompts, eyes gentle and encouraging. Marinette’s only kept the same routine for as long as they’ve known each other, a fact that isn’t lost on either of them. _It should be easy,_ Marinette thinks, because Tikki is too kind to. _You’ve done this a million times, you can do it again._

She smiles at Tikki, something hesitant in the gesture, before wrapping her fingers around the bottle of primer. She only gets as far as uncapping it before the sound of screams reach her ears.

Fang’s eyes snap open, a growl rumbling through him. Marinette throws him a startled glance, then looks at Tikki. Hastily toeing off her house shoes, she dashes towards the window, stepping into the oversized bathtub. She looks through the glass, searching for the commotion.

It’s easy to find. The mammoth-sized creature that stomps through the streets of Paris leaves no room for subtlety, opening its maw to release heart-stopping howls, feet leaving the ground shaking with every step. From here, Marinette can barely make out the rider on its back, and _barely_ is enough. Still—

Hesitation grips her heart for a second too long. Long enough for Tikki to call out for her, soft but urgent.

Marinette slams her eyes closed, breathing deep.

She doesn’t want to do this.

She has to do this.

“Spots on.”

* * *

By the time Ladybug arrives on the scene, two miles’ worth of buildings have been demolished. She doesn’t think of people — prefers to think that they got away in time.

She lands on the hind of whatever the creature is. Her guess is that it was originally an elephant. It’s been nauseatingly mutated, its skin peeled away to reveal purple coated insides. Metal plates span across random stretches, bolted into the monster’s surface. Bones lines the length of its trunk, spreading out over its face. Two extra tusks extend from behind its ears, sharp tips plated with metal, and there are steel circles where its eyes should be. From far away, the monster looks as though it’s covered in a purple mist, and she’d been worried that it was emitting poison. Standing on top of it, it’s obvious that the creature is vibrating; fast enough that it looks and feels _still_ , and fast enough to let off some type of gas.

One sniff is enough to make her stomach roll, and she covers her mouth with her hand. It could still be poison, but it poses more of a gagging threat than anything else for now.

The villain of the hour is too busy monologuing to notice her arrival, so Ladybug takes the chance to find the akuma. Smart money’s on the elephant — if it got akumatized with her, it’s likely the source of her energy. She doesn’t carry anything else that Ladybug can see. No rings, or pens, or umbrellas.

Defeating and de-evilizing an elephant. Sounds simple enough.

She stands up straight, cocking her hip as she twirls her yoyo. “I’m all for dramatic entrances,” she calls, getting the woman’s attention, “but this is a bit _too_ dramatic, don’t you think?”

“So you’ve finally arrived.” Magenta lips curl into a sly smirk, and stormy gray eyes devour her from beneath arching eyelashes that seem to fan out a mile long. Anyone’s makeup would seem underwhelming, in comparison to hers. It’s all bright pinks and purples against dark skin, white streaks painted across her cheeks without pattern. Even her dress is outrageous, toeing the line between medieval and modernly sultry. “I was starting to worry you wouldn’t show, Lady Luck.”

Ladybug’s head tips to the side, her smile belying the rapid beating of her heart. “It’d be rude to miss a party when my invite was so elaborate.”

“What can I say?” She lifts up a hand, manicured nails pointed at the spandex covered hero. “You are the guest of honor.”

Ladybug’s eyes shoot down in a nick of time. She leaps forward, diving off of the metal plate beneath her as it starts to shift. When she regains her footing, she whips around to see what became of the plate. She watches as it collapses in on itself, burying itself into the creature’s hind until it disappears. It’s not painless; the elephant lets out an agonized cry, loud enough to make her clap her hands over her ears. The howl subsides not long after the plate has disappeared, but it rings in her ears relentlessly.

The surface beneath her feet grows hot. It’s such a gradual process, she hardly notices until it goes from hot to _boiling._ A scream tears itself from her throat when it starts to melt the soles of her shoes, the heat licking against the soles of her feet. Loud cackling fills the air around her, a jarring contrast to her agony.

She swallows bile, and pushes from the soles of her feet, jumping from the back of the elephant. Her yoyo wraps around a balcony railing, and she swings onto a close building. Landing on her feet proves to be a mistake, and she crumples to the ground. Her knees hit the roof, and she chokes back a groan.

She doesn’t want to look at the damage done to her feet. She doesn’t _have to._ Regardless of how bad it looks, she can’t stand, but sitting isn’t an option. Not with the akuma still rampaging through the streets, not when she’s the only one who can stop her.

If there was ever a reason for heroism to be a two-man job, this would be it.

Gritting her teeth, she pushes back onto her feet. The initial stagger is expected, but she recovers quickly. The pain makes her stomach turn, and her eyes start to water. It hasn’t even been _five minutes._ She can’t tap out now.

Spinning her yoyo, she glances around for stable ground. Landing on top of the creature is clearly a bad idea. Whatever powers the akuma has, the monster is her greatest weapon, and Ladybug isn’t interested in experiencing what else it can do. She still hasn’t even figured out how she’ll get the akuma out of the elephant, and none of this will matter until she does.

Dammit.

She yanks herself forward, zipping through the air alongside the akuma. The woman cackles. “Back so soon, Lady Luck? I was starting to think my darling had gotten the best of you.” When Ladybug doesn’t respond to her jab, she scowls. “Fine, be that way. Bow before me, your Zookeeper!”

“The name certainly leaves much to be desired,” Ladybug murmurs, catapulting herself from another light post. Until Zookeeper stops, landing isn’t an option. And even when she does, Ladybug’s feet are still a problem.

Dammit.

One issue at a time.

She keeps an eye to the streets as she flies, ensuring that no civilians are left in the area. Everyone seems to have gotten to safety already, leaving her with one less thing to fret over. Without people to worry about, she can strategize. The best place to start would be separating Zookeeper from her creature. At that—

Doesn’t _Zookeeper_ imply that she has more than one animal at her disposal? What is Ladybug supposed to do if she does? She can’t even hold her own against _one_.

With a quiet curse, she speeds up, zipping ahead of Zookeeper and her beast. The one advantage she knows she has is her speed. The monster is too big to move fast, making it easier for Ladybug to stay ahead of it.

When there’s a great enough distance between them, she comes to another stop on top of a higher building. White hot pain shoots from her feet, but she does a better job of ignoring it this time around. She ducks behind a chimney, looking around the corner for Zookeeper. She hasn’t deviated from the course, thankfully. Ladybug doesn’t know how many more landings her feet can take, and she doesn’t want to push her luck.

Back pressed to the prickly wall, she waits until Zookeeper is closer before she moves. Stepping out from behind her hiding post, she lets her yoyo shoot forward, and watches as it coils its string around the Zookeeper. Before the woman can realize what’s happening, she yanks her off of the beast, dragging her onto the roof.

“Don’t try it, Zookeeper,” she advises as the akumatized victim thrashes against her bindings. “You’re not going anywhere.” She almost adds that she’d only hurt herself like that, but she doesn’t waste her breath.

Her eyes shoot towards the beast. It surges forward, even without its keeper. For the first time, Marinette feels a cold shot of fear course through her veins. If she doesn’t stop it in time—

“Looks like you’re having a _wild_ time, bugaboo.”

Dammit, dammit, _dammit._ “Not your best,” she quips, throwing a glance to her uninvited guest.

Leaning confidently against his staff, Chat Noir’s head tips to the side, lips pulled in an easy smirk. “No? I was pretty proud of it.”

“Nice to know your standards haven’t changed in six years.”

“Me _ouch_ , Ladybug.” He feigns hurt, laying a hand on his chest. “Having a rough day?”

 _Like you wouldn’t believe._ She sighs. “Not right now, Chat. If I don’t—” She stops herself before she can say it. He won’t care. He hasn’t in a while.

That doesn’t stop him from prompting her. “If you don’t what? Figure out how to stop Dumbo?” His gaze lazily flickers to the gargantuan creation, as if he couldn’t care less what happens to the city he lives in. “You caught Zookeeper. But you’re never going to get that akuma out by yourself. If only there were someone who could help you…”

Red colors her cheeks, though it’s not out of embarrassment. It’s _anger_ , soaring through her system with a ferocity that feels foreign. Her _pride_ hurts at the manipulative statement, but not nearly as much as her heart does. Her hands ball into fists at her sides, and she can’t stop the scowl that dominates her face. “I don’t need your help, Chat Noir.”

He looks back to her. “No? ‘Cause that’s not what it looks like from where I’m standing.”

“ _Then move over_ ,” she says, the words coming out in a near growl.

A sick sense of satisfaction spreads through her chest at the way his body startles, and she marches past him. At least, she intends to. After the second step, the pain becomes overwhelming, and her knees buckle. The ground shoots closer, but she doesn’t have the time to panic or catch herself before a strong arm wraps around her waist. “What were you saying?” He snaps, setting her back on her feet. “What the hell happened to your— _merde._ ”

“I’m fine.” She pushes away from him, swallowing the bile that rises in her throat. “I can do this on my own.”

He tears his eyes away from the gruesome state of her feet, and stares incredulously at her. “No, you can’t! Stop being stubborn for one second and _let me help you._ ” She could almost laugh at how  _different_ he sounds now. No more arrogance or bravado. He sounds like he's just as much in over his head as she is, and for some reason, that pisses her off.

“Why, Chat?” She blurts before she can stop herself, fiery gaze locked on him. “If you help me, what do you get out of it? The sense of security that we’re _supposed_ to give to Paris? The comfort of knowing you saved your town?”

“That’s—” His jaw snaps shut, and some part of her — some young, stupid, horribly naïve part of her — wants him to just say _yes._ She wants him to say that he’s doing it for the sake of the city, for the people, for any noble reason. Some stupid, stupid part of her wants him to be the same Chat Noir she worked with for years, but she knows without him saying so, that the Chat Noir she knew is unavailable. “Ladybug, let me help you. Your damn morals aren’t worth the city!”

Laughter almost escapes, but she swallows it down. It would be too horrified, too unbearable. Does he even hear himself? Her gaze is defiant and unmovable. “Answer the question.”

_Just say yes._

He stares back at her for moments that drag on for hours, neither of them moving as the city is destroyed. Then, his shoulders drop. She watches as he accepts the reality of the situation, before pulling himself up to his full height, peering down at her through cold eyes.

“I’ll help you save the city,” he promises, “if you hand over your miraculous.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no, but seriously. i know i dropped this story for a minute, but i work in politics, and i didn't have time to breathe these past couple of months. but now i have a life again, so expect more frequent updates, and... idk kill me if they don't come.
> 
> anywho, i hope you enjoyed! please leave a comment, if you did, or drop a kudo. thank you for reading, folks!
> 
> next chapter preview—
>
>> Their relationship isn’t born out of love or anything resembling it. It’s a need for release that they could both find anywhere else, but prefer to find in each other.


	4. the lady doth protest too much.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His life has a way of feeling like one giant, cosmic joke.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this has been sitting in my drafts for a month and. idk why i'm so nervous about posting this?? it's literally my favorite chapter, but it's the one i'm most apprehensive about sdflshl this is a chapter full of fun that seems pointless but it's all important for the plot, i swear. also, this chapter doesn't answer the questions as to what happened before ( re: marinette's scars, and why chat and queen bee are on The Dark Side, etc. ) but it does start to build up to that reveal . that's a conversation that happens ... sometime in the next three chapters fdsklfs
> 
> also!!! **content warning:** there's a bit of smut in this chapter, but it's about as short and non-graphic as can be. it's the first half of the second section, if you want to skip past that. if not, you're going to read it and think, "these two are dumb af" and... yeah, they are :P

In the aftermath, the headlines all read the same. **MIRACULOUS LADYBUG — NOT SO MIRACULOUS?** Adrien only has to skim through the first article to know what they all say. The damage from the Zookeeper fiasco was unprecedented. Buildings trampled, cars crushed, thank _God_ there were no fatal casualties. When the world reset, and the Zookeeper was just another confused worker, there was nothing loss that couldn’t be replaced.

The thing is — nothing should’ve _had_ to be replaced.

That was the big thing about Ladybug. Sure, she could save the world. She could do what no one else could do, and take down akumas with little difficulty. But that wasn’t what amazed them. In time, anyone could have figured out how to defeat akumas. With science and technology, it would have been possible, even without the leotards and yoyos. What amazed was her ability to reset things. No matter how much damage was done to their beloved city, all it took were two magic words, and everything would be back to how it was.

There was no rhyme or reason when it changed.

It started out small. Bells didn’t ring quite the same. Chairs weren’t quite as comfortable. Cars didn’t run as smoothly. It happened once in a while — when the world went back its natural state, things were faulty. Nothing consequential, but weird. Then it happened more often, up to the point where people _expected_ something to be messed up in the aftermath.

The outrage comes in the wake of Zookeeper’s rage. A little boy rests in the hospital, leg broken in the rush to escape. It’s the first _injury_ Ladybug couldn’t fix. It’s the first thing that truly felt heavy — felt _real._

Adrien’s the only one who knows why it all happens. He doubts even Ladybug knows.

Even his father doesn’t. No, he’s aware of a much more aggravating truth.

“You let her go again.” The eyes that peer at him behind designer glasses are cold and relentless. “I’m starting to think you do this deliberately.”

Adrien glares. “You really think meetings with you are the highlight of my day?”

“ _Tone,_ Adrien.”

He bites his tongue. The warning itself isn’t enough to shut Adrien’s mouth; he no longer cares about empty threats and disappointed glares. It’s the subtle nod of his father’s head, a simple cant to the left, that reminds Adrien why he puts up with this in the first place. He doesn’t look himself; doesn’t want to see the box locked in that cage.

“You had her.” Gabriel’s voice comes out in a near growl, laced with the type of anger that precedes a bruising, breaking blow, from a lesser man. But never from Gabriel. His punishments aren’t the type that leaves physical marks. No, his are much worse. “You had her right in front of you —  _in your arms even._ Why didn’t you take her Miraculous?”

“Because I _couldn’t._ She wasn’t going to take it off, and I didn’t have time.”

“You had nothing _but_ time!”

“Paris would have been destroyed!”

“Adrien—” And there’s that _warning_ again, that implicit threat of destroying what matters the most to Adrien.

But he doesn’t care. Not when it’s this, not when it’s the _entire goddamn city._ “I wasn’t going to sacrifice millions of lives for a pair of _earrings._ There will be other chances, but I’m not going to let people die.”

Gabriel’s glare hardens into steel. “Their deaths would have been inconsequential.”

“ _Inconsequential?_ They’re living people, not — not pawns on a chess board!”

His disgust must be palpable. There’s no way his father can’t see it on his face, can’t feel it rolling off of him in thick waves. Adrien couldn’t make it more obvious if he _tried_ , but Gabriel Agreste remains as unaffected as always. “Everyone,” he says, his expression so impassive and uncaring, it makes Adrien _sick_ , “is a means to an end, Adrien.”

When Adrien was younger, still seeking his father’s love and acceptance, words like that would cut deep. They’d breed insecurities, prompt questions like—

“Even me?” The words slip out by accident. He’s ashamed of the pitiful desperation in his own voice, but it’s not enough to take his eyes off of his father. His immovable father, sitting coolly and confidently behind that desk.

His apathetic father, who doesn’t so much as _blink_. “You don’t understand now, son. That doesn’t mean this lacks purpose.”

 _Even me._ The sting of hurt is sharp enough to kill, but Adrien’s a pro at ignoring it by now. He scoffs, tearing his eyes away from the man. “Of course.”

“You’ll do better next time,” Gabriel says dismissively, picking up his tablet. He unlocks it, turning his attention away from his live-in pawn. “You have plans for the night, don’t you? It wouldn’t do well for you to be late.”

There are still hours before Adrien is supposed to meet up with Marinette, Nino, and Alya. Five hours before he’s expected at the bakery, only a ten-minute drive away. He’s far from late, but that doesn’t stop him from taking the exit he’s given.

* * *

Lila’s breath hitches when he slides into her, and the dig of nails into his back feels a lot like accomplishment. She’s hot and wet around him, drawing a _fuck_ from his lips.

Their bodies move with such synchronicity, it could be _choreographed._ As often as they do this, it might as well be. Her mouth tastes like the liquor she stole from her father, and the scent of it reaches his nose with every shaky breath she lets out.

She twists them around —  _you know I like being on top_ — and he drinks her in, hands planted on her thighs, as she rides him at a teasing pace.

She mouths at his jaw, lips and teeth scraping against his skin. Her hips roll into his, the movement gradually becoming less controlled and a little jerkier as her breath kicks up. Her moans create a cacophony of _right there_ and _please, Adrien, fuck, I’m so close—_

Lila comes for the first time when he bites her neck, her hand fisted in his hair as the wave washes over her. She’s pliant and greedy when he flips them back over, capturing his lips in a filthy kiss as he thrusts into her, abandoning patience for desire. Whiskey-coated breath brushes against his lips when she pulls away, _oh god oh god Adrien—_

She comes again when he spills his desperation inside of her, reckless in a way they shouldn’t be, but he’s too high off of ecstasy to care.

“Not staying to cuddle today?” She taunts, some handfuls of minutes later, when they’ve stepped out of the shower and into their clothes. She lies against the soiled sheets of her bed, a new set of lingerie on. With her hair splayed against the pillows and miles of skin exposed for his eyes to feast on, she looks all too inviting. From the look in her eyes, she’s well aware. “That kind of thing makes a girl feel _used_ , Adrien.”

His lips twitch, a smile breaking through as he tugs his jacket on. “I’d stay, if I could, but I promised some other friends I’d hang out with them tonight.” Only part of that is a lie.

Lila’s brows lift in surprise, and she sits up. “You have other friends?”

He tries not to frown. Lila’s like Chloé, in the way that she’s ceaselessly _cruel_ in what she says. The difference is that Chloé is always aware of how cutting her words are. Even when she doesn’t mean for them to be, she’s far from ignorant when it comes to the pain she causes. Lila’s cruelty is _instinct,_ bred from competitive parents, and festered in a world where her options were to eat or be eaten.

Chloé would say the same thing, but she’d know exactly why they rubbed him the wrong way. Lila doesn’t have a clue.

“My dad paid them,” he half-lies, because the truth isn’t something he’d ever share with her.

She laughs, all understanding and carelessness. “ _Ah_.” She leans forward expectantly, and he bends down to press his lips against hers. “Don’t cheat on me.”

The smile that spreads across his face is an empty, humorless thing. “I couldn’t, if I wanted to.”

Their relationship isn’t born out of love or anything resembling it. It’s a need for release that they could both find anywhere else, but prefer to find in each other.

It’s the thrill of doing something their parents would never approve of, even if it remains their dirty little secret. It’s easy and convenient and simple, when it needs to be.

He doesn’t love her, and neither of them pretend otherwise.

* * *

 After leaving Lila’s house, Adrien realizes very quickly that he has nowhere else to go.

He wouldn’t dream of calling Chloé right now. Not after leaving Lila’s house, and certainly not before going to Marinette’s. Nothing good would come out of seeing her now, even if she is oblivious to what he’s been up to.

Avoiding her eliminates Sabrina as an option, but he admittedly isn’t too torn up about that. She’s always been more Chloé’s friend than his, a mutual friend that doesn’t care much about him at all.

Kagami’s out of town and has been for the past month. He aches for her companionship more than anyone else’s, but he knows she isn’t an option.

Marc would be ideal, if not for the fact that he would immediately know where Adrien’s been. He’s had the annoying affinity of seeing right through Adrien for as long as they’ve known each other, and it usually isn’t something Adrien begrudges. He _likes_ having a friend who knows him as well as Marc does. But something akin to shame eats at him whenever he thinks of Marc finding out about him and Lila, and all that they are and aren’t.

With his list of options completely scratched out, he reluctantly recognizes that Lila was right to be surprised. He’s kept the same five friends for years, and has no one to spend time with, outside of them.

Except… well.

The bell above the Boulangerie Patisserie has a weird ring that’s both disconcerting and familiar, by now. Not for the first time, he wonders if it was always like that, or if something happened to it.

The first person he sees upon entrance is Marinette. She looks up when she hears the bell, eyes widening when they land on him. She throws a glance to the clock on the wall, then back to him. Her head tips in confusion, and he smiles at her, shoulders hunching in a shrug. Nibbling on her lip, she lifts up a finger, then turns her attention back to the customers she’s with.

Adrien leans back against the wall by the door, watching as she works. He would never accuse Marinette of being _insecure._ He doesn’t think it’s insecurity that forces her to curl into herself, or hide in layers of clothing. If anything, she’s as confident as they come, if not more so. It was something even he didn’t realize at first.

Not until she stared into the eyes of a villain and didn’t so much as _blink._

While he lacks the words to explain her mannerisms, he doesn’t see her as the perishing flower he once thought she was. That said, she has a different sense of self with her customers. She stands a little straighter, smiles a little looser. She’s professional but friendly, letting out peals of laughter and making easy quips.

If this were a movie, she would be the waitress that customers kept coming back for, simply because they fell in love with her laugh. In a movie, she would fall for one of them, too.

But life is far from a movie, and she finds herself standing before him instead. Her arms cross over her stomach, the smile on her lips small but indulgent. “You’re a little early.”

“Only by a few minutes,” he jokes, as if there aren’t three and a half hours left on the clock. “I was kind of planning on spending the time here without bugging you, but your, uh, charming bell gave me away.”

She looks pained by the reminder of the bell. “It’s annoying, isn’t it?”

“It’s not.” Her brows lift, but he means it. “It adds _character_.”

Her shoulders jump with laughter, and she looks away from him, shaking her head at him. _She’s beautiful,_ he realizes distantly. It feels awfully belated, considering he’s seen her stripped of the layers and the masks, seen her half-naked and in pain. But it’s here, in a bustling bakery, standing two feet away from this girl dressed in an oversized sweatshirt and brightly colored jeans, that he realizes how beautiful she is.

His life has a way of feeling like one giant, cosmic joke.

Her hand reaches out to grasp his arm, trailing from his elbow to his wrist as she tugs him aside. The door opens, letting in another couple that greet Marinette by name. She waves politely, then grimaces at Adrien. “Sorry, it’s been busy all day. Do you want to wait upstairs?”

Adrien’s torn between being honored that she trusts him enough to leave him alone in her home, and exasperated at the same thing. He’s done absolutely nothing to warrant it, but she gives it so easily and fully. There isn’t a hint of distrust in her gaze, despite the fact that he’s been a terrible man to her, in and out of the leather suit.

It’d be too easy to exploit that. To accept her offer, make his way upstairs, and unravel the mystery of Marinette Dupain-Cheng. All it would take is a few minutes, safe behind the midday rush of the bakery.

He could teach her not to trust him, just as he taught her to fear.

But the idea loses its appeal as soon as it forms. Putting her pieces together is only fun if he takes his time on it and figures it out for himself. Cheating is too quick and easy. Plus, a few minutes won’t do much to kill the next three hours.

He casts a glance around the bakery, taking in the sight of the chattering customers, stripped of their jackets and pretenses; so comfortable in this space, that they don’t complain about the wait, or the body heat. He knows that the bakery is owned and run by the family, without a single employee that doesn’t live here.

“Can I help?” His eyes shoot back to Marinette’s shocked face, and he grins. “I’m not much a baker, but I can serve.”

“That’s not…” She shakes her head. “I can’t ask that of you, Adrien.”

“You’re not asking, I offered.” She levels an unamused glare at him, prompting a laugh from him. He sobers quickly, though his smile never completely fades. “You said it yourself, it’s been busy like this all day. It’s not going to slow down any time soon, and you and your parents are just going to wear yourself out.”

Her expression shutters, but she still doesn’t budge. “It wouldn’t be fair to you. It’s exhausting, and you came here for a sleepover, not to _work._ And my parents would never say yes, it’s just not right.”

Realizing she’ll never change her mind, Adrien nods. “Okay.” Before she can get any ideas of her own, he turns her around and places his hands on her shoulders.

“Wh— Adrien?”

He hums, as if he can’t hear her, and guides her towards the back. While he’s never been behind the counter himself, he’s used to being slotted in places he doesn’t belong. Tom pauses, comically shocked to see him. “Adrien? Aren’t you a little early?”

“Hi, Monsieur Dupain. My driver dropped me off early, so Marinette said it was okay if I helped out here?”

“I did not say that.”

Tom’s gaze bounces between his daughter and her friend a few times, before he bursts out laughing. It’s a belly deep laugh, the kind that moves your entire body. Adrien had never seen anyone actually laugh like that before meeting Tom. Then again, Adrien’s never seen his own father laugh at all. “You’re more than welcome to help, if it isn’t any trouble.”

“Papa!”

“It’s no trouble at all, sir.” Adrien shrugs off his bag and jacket, setting them behind the counter. “Just tell me what to do.”

Tom spends the next few minutes going over simple instructions with Adrien. He gives a run through of the different types of bread, and how to decode the shorthand written on the bags. The tutorial on how to use the cash register is basic and short, simply because there’s little chance of Adrien coming into contact with the machine at all. He assures Adrien that their customers are mostly loyal regulars, so they’ll be on their best behavior, but if anyone _does_ give them problems, Tom or Marinette can deal with it.

At one point, Sabine comes downstairs with fresh bread, and greets Adrien with the same warmth and sweetness that she always does. “Adrien’s working here now,” Marinette mutters testily, to which her mother simply replies, “That’s nice.”

Adrien can’t help but laugh at Marinette’s incredulous expression, though it quickly turns into indignant screeching when she hits him.

With the _how to_ out of the way, Adrien rolls up his sleeves and gets to work. He and Marinette split the delivery load, pushing out orders as they come. Tom mans the register, while Sabine prepares the orders, and the system is easy and efficient. Marinette glares at him every time they lock eyes, but it grows progressively more playful as time passes.

Jarringly enough, he has _fun._ In all of his fantasies for a normal life, he’s never wanted to work anywhere near the food industry. He’s never wanted to be anyone’s caterer, but the smile he wears is bright, and the laughs are loud and genuine. It’s not all new to him; he’s been working crowds since before he could walk, dazzling and disarming them without any effort. He’s in his element, but the new twist is enough to make all the difference in the world.

The clock ticks down, and one batch is customers is replaced by another, then another. Things finally start to slow down after about two hours, and the worst of the rush passes without a hitch. When the numbers have dwindled down to less than ten, Sabine insists he and Marinette call it a night. She pushes him towards the stairs when he tries to protest, and Marinette throws him a look, as if to say, _now you see how it feels, don’t you?_

He sits at the bar counter in her kitchen as she fetches two water bottles, setting one down in front of him. She takes a seat on the other side of the counter, cracking open her bottle without drinking from it. “Adrien? I know I said no, but I really appreciate you helping out downstairs.”

“I get why you did,” he says with a nod. “But I had fun. And I would’ve felt bad, if I stayed up here and chilled while you guys worked your butts off.”

She drinks from her bottle, and the crane of her neck is enough to give him a preview of a scar peeking out from beneath her sweater. He doesn’t mention it, shifting his eyes back up to hers as she sets her bottle down. She shrugs, lips lifting at the corners. “We’re used to it. Today was busier than usual, but nothing we couldn’t handle. You were so much help, though,” she sighs, shoulders slumping with weariness. “That would’ve taken at least another hour without your help. But––” She gasps, looking at the clock on the stove. “It’s almost six!”

Not quite seeing the urgency, he stares at her. “It’s getting there, yeah.”

“Nino and Alya are coming over!”

“I believe so, yes.”

“ _Adrien!_ ”

He snickers. “What’s the big deal?”

“We’re not in our pajamas! We can’t not be in our pajamas when they get here, it’s blasphemy! And—” She pinches the collar of her sweatshirt, and sniffs beneath it, pulling away with a crinkled nose. “I reek.”

Considering he’s been in close proximity to her for a couple of minutes ago, he has it on pretty good authority that she doesn’t. “It’s only four-fifty-six,” he points out with a glance at the clock. “You have time to shower and change.”

She glances at him hesitantly. “I guess…”

It takes him entirely too long to understand. _She doesn’t want me to see her scars._ Part of him wants to laugh at that. He’s seen them all, more times than she could imagine. And it’s not likely he’d see them now, anyway, but he figures it’s not totally out of the realm of possibility.

He smiles. “I’ll go downstairs and help your parents out some more. My stuff’s down there anyway. Just text me when you get out of the shower, and I can go up and change when you’re done, okay?”

The tension seeps out of her at the easy resolution. “Sounds good!”

If Tom and Sabine have any questions about Adrien coming back down, they don’t ask. They only smile at him, and Sabine allows him to take the broom from her. He starts on cleaning up, sweeping up dust and crumbs, while they take care of the last few customers. It’s simplistic enough for him to forget about his father, and Lila, and Chloé, and all that he’s running from.

When Marinette texts him, he grabs his stuff and excuses himself upstairs. She’s standing at the top of the stairs when he gets there, and he takes a minute to appraise her outfit. Every inch of skin is covered again, and while it’s not _surprising,_ he is a little disappointed.

The decision to one day get her out of those clothes is sudden, and not _nearly_ as sexual as it has the potential to be. Part of it is self-serving. The desire to be the one to break her out of her shell and convince her to be _more than this_ is almost overwhelming, but entirely for his own satisfaction.

Part of it is retribution, but he doesn’t think it’ll be that easy.

“Bathroom’s that way, if you want to change in there,” Marinette says, pointing down the hall. “We’ll be upstairs for the sleepover, so you can go up there when you’re done.”

Adrien nods, hiking his bag further up his shoulder. “Is your room up there?” He keeps his voice light and curious, as if he doesn’t already know the answer. He just wants to see if she’ll be honest about it. It’s the best way to gauge how much she trusts him, and how much work he has to do.

She shakes her head, running a hand through her still damp hair. “I’m at the top floor. We probably won’t go up there, but I can give you a tour.”

He smiles, wondering how someone could be so scarred and still so naïve. “I’d like that, Marinette.”

When she goes downstairs to get snacks, he heads to the bathroom. He changes into his pajamas without bothering to shower again, then checks his phone for any notifications. There’s nothing that demands his immediate attention, other than a few texts from Nino, making sure Adrien didn’t flake. He’s a little offended by the implication that he _would_ , but it’s not unfounded. It wouldn’t be the first time he’s had to cancel at the last minute.

There are other texts. From his photographer, from Nathalie, from Lila; emails that sit unread from professors, producers, artists, fans. There’s a flood of notifications he should see to, and he ignores them all but Nino’s, then stuffs his phone into his bag.

Marinette’s still downstairs when he gets out of the bathroom, so he ventures up to the next floor. Though he’s already seen it, he gives the look a more critical once over. It’s much simpler than any room in his home, but much homier. It’s closely packed together, the kitchen and living room separated only by a change in flooring. It’s not as spacious as he assumed it would be, but it looks lived in. From the notes on the fridge, to the personal effects placed on the counter and couches, to the art hanging on the wall, it looks—

Like someone’s home.

His stomach twists into tight knots, choking him and tearing his eyes away. He wonders if it’s as ridiculous as he thinks it is, to be so uncomfortable by the idea of a house doubling as a home. Maybe he’s uncomfortable because he’s invading the home, invited or not. It feels wrong, as if he’s already guilty of the crime he hasn’t committed.

In some respect, it doesn’t make a difference. A criminal is a criminal, all the same, and he’s long since tainted his record of good.

He sets his bag down by the couch, sitting down as he does. Leaning back against the white cushions, he mindlessly fiddles with the pink polka-dotted pillow beside him, eyes lifted towards the ceiling. Unless he’s mistaken, there’s nothing on the floor above him but the attic that acts as Marinette’s room. He can’t quell his curiosity about it. Rooms are a peak into someone’s mind and personality. Everything about this place _oozes_ personality, from the doors of the bakery, to the decorative pillows.

There’s no doubt in his mind that Marinette’s room will be a reflection of her, but he wonders which version. The one that smiled at the camera of Nino’s phone a year ago, or the one that swaddles herself in thick layers now?

The Marinette that jumps out of her skin when something startles her, or the one that waited on her balcony for Chat Noir to appear?

And where, he wonders, do the lines blur?

The sound of footsteps thundering up the stairs pull him out of his thoughts. He looks over in time to see Nino’s head appear. He blinks from behind his glasses, then grins. “Adrien, you made it!”

“I told you I would.” Despite himself, he can’t help but grin back. “Next time, have a little faith.”

Nino laughs, fully entering the living room. “Yeah, right. At any given time, you’ll be pulled away for a photoshoot or something. Which isn’t allowed, by the way. No one leaves until the sun comes up.”

“Kidnapping is illegal.”

“Even though we’re not kids?”

“The law doesn’t change because we’re _twenty,_ Nino.”

He hums disinterestedly. “Noted. Anyway, why’s your stuff still down here? Has Marinette not taken you upstairs yet?”

Adrien’s brows lift slightly, though he guesses it’s not that surprising that Nino’s been upstairs before. He laughs, going for sheepish. “Ah, not yet. She said she’d give me a tour, but she hasn’t had the chance.”

Nino leans back, calling downstairs. “Marinette! Can I take Adrien up to your room?”

“ _Don’t break anything,_ ” Marinette calls from downstairs.

“She’s crazy, if she thinks nothing is going to get broken tonight,” Nino mutters, then grins at Adrien. “Come on, dude. We can drop our bags off up there. We usually pass out in the living room, but we keep our stuff in Mari’s room, so it doesn’t get in her parents’ way,” he explains, leading Adrien to the stairs. There’s no hesitation as he makes his way up the ladder, pushing the door open with practiced ease. “They come in and out of the bakery, and they usually open up pretty early, so if you’re a light sleeper, don’t be surprised if they wake you up.”

He continues rambling on, explaining something about schedules and routines, but Adrien tunes him out. It’s not completely intentional. He _wants_ to know about the Dupain-Cheng family, about this life they’ve built, and how Nino and Alya have managed to fit into it for so long, but he’s pulled out of the moment, drawn into a daze by the room he steps into.

The first thing to catch his attention is the overwhelming amount of pink. He thinks it’s reasonable to be caught off guard by it. The shades vary, from the soft pink of the walls, to the darker tones of her chair and decorations. Aside from the color, he finds himself drawn in by the amount of _stuff_ in the room. He can’t talk about having too much of _anything_ , considering his room corners the market on ridiculously cluttered. His mess is organized, and so is Marinette’s, but her feels more personal.

As he looks at the _chaise_ , the partition, the decorated cord that leads up to her bed, all he can think is that this is all stuff that she picked out for herself. She might’ve even _made_ some of it. He can imagine it so easily; her fingers working tirelessly to make the outfit that hangs off of her mannequin, or to sew up the pillow that sits on her _chaise_ , her name curving across the front.

Everything in this room screams _Marinette was here_ , and somehow—

_Somehow._

He feels no closer to knowing her at all.

“Dude?” His eyes snap over to Nino, meeting his confused gaze. “You okay?”

“Yeah.” There’s an odd squeak to his voice, so he clears his throat. His cheeks heat up in embarrassment, and he smiles. “Sorry, I got distracted.”

“It’s the pink, huh.”

“I… yeah.”

Nino snickers, as if acutely aware of how off-putting that amount of pink can be. “She went through a phase in the third grade, and she never really got out of it.”

Third grade. Adrien tries to guess how long it’s been since then. All of the grades blurred to him back then; he wasn’t allowed to go to school, anyway. The most he could do was meet up with Chloé for a shared lesson, but those were rare.

The irony of it makes him want to laugh. They were all here in the third grade. Adrien’s been in the same mansion his entire life, just twenty minutes away from this warm home, the same one Marinette’s been in her entire life. They were always so close, within arm’s length of one another, and it took them twenty years to find each other.

It’s funny, the same way a knife to your throat is funny.

With his eyes set on something else, he drops his bag by the _chaise_. Wandering over to her desk, he reaches for the cat plushie resting beside her computer. It’s only a head, the grin stretched wide to reveal off-white teeth. A laugh chokes out of him, and he presses the back of his hand against his mouth to smother the sound. There’s something so inherently _fucked up_ about her having this, and he couldn’t explain it if he _tried._

“It’s funny-looking, huh?” Nino chuckles, oblivious to how funny this isn’t. “She made that when we were, like, fourteen. She was the _biggest_ Chat Noir fan. Everyone was gaga over Ladybug, but not Marinette. She would choose the cat _any_ day.”

Adrien sobers, the pad of his thumb rubbing across the teeth of the plushie. “And now?” He can’t help but ask. “Is she still a fan?”

“I don’t really know, man. She doesn’t talk about him as much. But I guess it makes sense,” Nino murmurs, voice dropping. He speaks more to himself than Adrien, but the blond hears it anyway. “She hasn’t been the same at all since then.”

There’s that really unironic saying about curiosity and cats. Adrien’s only made the joke a million times in the past six years, back before things got complicated, and life became a constant game of tug-of-war with his father. He knows better than anyone how dangerous curiosity can be, and yet he’s still foolish enough to want to know.

“Since what?”

He doesn’t turn around. He doesn’t have to; he can feel Nino’s gaze skip over to him, hesitant for the first time since Adrien’s met him. He prepares himself for a lack of answer — not that he doesn’t already know. Whatever Nino does or doesn’t say, it’s confirmation of what he knows. The date’s been seared into Adrien’s mind for long enough that even if Nino doesn’t say it, he’ll know. And maybe he doesn’t _want_ Nino to answer. Maybe he wants to leave that door closed for a little while longer, avoid those demons a little longer.

But he can’t take back what’s already been asked, and he can’t stop Nino from saying:

“You remember the blackout in May, right?”

* * *

 Alya’s hair is pulled back into a loose ponytail, matching the jogging shorts and sweatshirt she wears in place of pajamas. It’s the first time he’s seen her with her hair up, or with her legs exposed. Nino once said she looked drop dead gorgeous in everything, and Adrien’s starting to think he’s right.

She lies on the couch when the boys come down from Marinette’s room, scrolling through her phone. When he sits down by her feet, she pulls her knees closer to her without ever looking up from her phone. “Hey, sunshine.”

“Hi, Alya.” She’s the only person in the world who calls him that, and he’d be a liar to say he doesn’t like it.

“You still reading those articles?” Nino asks, flopping down on the couch by her head.

“These people are so _stupid_.” Adrien’s eyes widen, surprised by the venom in her voice. The grip on her phone tightens, and he finally notices the pinched expression on her face. “Everyone’s blaming Ladybug for what happened last night. As if she didn’t save the city!”

Oh. _Oh._

“They just want a scapegoat,” Nino says, neither of them noticing how still Adrien sits. “Blaming Hawkmoth doesn’t sell anymore, so now they blame Ladybug.”

“I know that, I just — _ugh!_ ”

“ _Oh-_ kay,” Adrien interrupts, prying her phone from her hands. “I’m going to take this before you break it. Let’s talk about something else, yeah? Like, um— what are we doing tonight? I know you said we sing along to cheesy songs, or something, but that’s about all I know.”

Alya sighs as she sits up, but she makes no move to take her phone back. “That’s the best part. Usually, one of us picks a theme for the night, and we either watch the movies that fit the theme, or put on a playlist of videos, and we lip sync to it.”

“Terribly,” Nino adds.

Alya nods firmly. “Very terribly. Marinette’s parents always bring us food, even though we could get it ourselves. We usually don’t have to worry about volume, because we run out of songs by the time they go to bed, but we keep the music at reasonable levels anyway. You don’t _have_ to participate in every song—”

“It’s pretty much impossible to.”

“So you choose which songs you sing to, and which you don’t. And since it’s your first time, you can sit the first few songs out, but usually, the first song is required.”

He nods, picking at the polka-dotted pillow again. “So what’s the theme for tonight?”

“Hannah Montana,” the couple choruses, Nino far more excited than Alya.

“…Who?”

The gasp from Nino is _comical_ in its exaggerated drama. “You don’t know who Hannah Montana is? What kind of childhood did you _have?_ ”

Alya squints at him, as if seeing him through a different light. “Did you watch Disney Channel at all?”

“Not that I remember.”

Nino _whines._

“Oh, you poor thing,” Alya tuts.

“Don’t worry, we’re going to fix this,” Nino declares. “The next _month_ is going to be dedicated to Disney Channel.”

“Month?” Alya twists around to look at him. “We can’t cover _everything_ in a month, that’s only four sleepovers, unless we use the whole weekend, every weekend. And that still might not be enough time.”

“Two months, then?”

“I _guess_ it’d make more sense, but we would probably still have to use the entire weekend.”

“So we’re continuing tomorrow, then?”

Adrien wonders if he should object at all. He wouldn’t — spending the entire weekend with them sounds nothing short of amazing, but he should probably stop them from making plans for him.

Marinette comes upstairs in the next moment, arms full of treats. He rises from the couch in one fluid motion, lifting the tray from her. She sends him a grateful smile, coming the rest of the way up the stairs. “Sorry that took so long! What are we talking about?”

“They’re kidnapping me.”

“Oh.”

He snorts at her lackluster reaction, setting the tray down on the counter. “They were offended that I don’t know who Hannah Montana is.”

Marinette winces, though he can still see traces of her smile. “Nino swears by her. Not knowing who she is might as well be a criminal offense. I’m a little surprised you don’t know who she is, but don’t worry.” A smirk fits prettily on her lips, and she peers up at him with her hands planted on her hips. “By the end of the night, you’ll be _very_ familiar with her work.”

He wonders if he should be nearly as excited by that promise as he is.

* * *

 “— _The seven things I hate about you!_ ”

The sudden change in pace takes him by surprise, but the others have no difficulty keeping up. Alya mouths the words into an empty water bottle, hair swinging as she pours her heart into it. Marinette rocks out on the air guitar, fingers moving wildly through the invisible strings. Having nothing to contribute, Nino dances, head banging hard enough that his glasses fall off his face and skid across the floor. None of them move to pick them up, but they carefully avoid crushing them under their feet.

“ _You’re vain, your games, you’re insecure, you love me, you like her! You make me laugh, you make me cry, I don’t know which side to buy!_ ” Alya whips around to face him, pointing a finger as the chorus continues, face twisted in an exaggerated state of what he assumes is grief or anger. “ _Your friends, they’re jerks, when you act like them, just know it hurts! I wanna be with the one I know. And the seventh thing,_ ” she mouths, coming closer to him, “ _I hate the most that you do._ ” His lips tremble in his effort to force back a smile, but he can’t take his eyes off of her. Her hand brushes against his jaw, false adoration in her eyes. “ _You make me love you._ ”

The genre seems to change once again, and he takes a glance at the TV screen. YouTube shows the _7 Things_ music video, subtitles appearing along the bottom of the screen. Alya doesn’t so much as glance at them, leaving Adrien to believe they’re there for his benefit. The girl he assumes to be Miley (Hannah?) belts her heart out on the set of the music video, but she fails to keep Adrien’s attention.

He’s drawn back to the way Alya’s hips swing when she sings, and the way Nino gets oddly _emotional_ during the song, or how altogether _relaxed_ Marinette looks. He’s never seen her like this, but he’s never seen any of them like this.

“ _And compared to all the great things that would take too long to write,_ ” Alya syncs, coming to sit beside Adrien, “ _I probably should mention the seven that I like… The seven things I like about you!_ ” She jumps up, pulling Adrien with her. She bounces around as the list goes on, her hand wrapped around Adrien’s to keep him on his feet, but he doesn’t need her to.

He doesn’t even _attempt_ to sing along, but he dances all the same, if only to see the way his friends grin when he does.

* * *

 Nino _insists_ on doing a solo. It’s really not a problem, considering they’re ten songs in, and they’re _tired_ , but he refuses to play the song until the others are sitting down. Marinette rolls her eyes fondly, and drops down onto the couch, grabbing her water bottle from the floor. Adrien tries not to stare as she drinks, and mostly succeeds. The chance to peak at her scars again is tempting, but he ignores it.

For this one night, he won’t think about it.

“ _Smooth talkin’,_ ” Nino doesn’t sing, punctuating the beat with a jerk of his hips. “ _So rockin’. He’s got everything that a girl’s wantin’. Guitar cutie _—_  he plays it groovy! I can’t keep myself from doin’ something stupid, think I’m really fallin’ for his smile, get butterflies when he says my name!_”

Marinette laughs, gaze focused on Nino as he performs. Her eyes gleam with laughter, and the smile that’s forced itself onto her lips never fades. The skin around her eyes crinkles, the same way her father’s does, and while Adrien is perfectly aware that he’s staring now, he can’t look away.

“ _He’s lightnin’! Sparks are flyin’. Everywhere I go, he’s always on my mind and — I’m going crazy about him lately! And I can’t help myself from how my heart is racin’. Think I’m really diggin’ on his vibe. He really blows me away. Hey!_ ”

Alya starts singing, belting out the words that Nino mouths. Marinette joins in, and Adrien follows along.

Nino looks absolutely _betrayed_ , but it doesn’t stop him from finishing the song. With _jazz hands._

* * *

 Tom comes up with food right before they start _Don’t Want to Be Torn._ He smiles at the chorus of thanks that he receives. “It’s about time you kids take a break, don’t you think? You’ve been more energetic than ever tonight.”

Alya breaks off a piece of a muffin, chewing and swallowing before she answers. “We haven’t done it in so long. It feels so good to do it again, we’ve been going all in.”

“And it’s Adrien’s first time,” Marinette adds, hands wrapped around her teacup. “We want to make it fun for him.”

Adrien _is_ having fun. The most fun he can remember ever having, when he thinks about it. He’s never done anything like this, and didn’t imagine he would love it as much as he does. But there’s something inexplicably strange about this place, these people, this party.

Something inexplicably new burrowing its way into his chest, and he’s helpless to stop it.

* * *

 “Okay, I know we said we weren’t going to force anyone to do _anything_ ,” Alya begins, breathing heavily as they all come down from the strain of _Party in the U.S.A._ “But Marinette, it would be inhumane of you not to do your favorite song.”

Marinette, sprawled across her best friend’s lap, gawks at her. “Wh _—_ _now?_ ” She groans, burying her face in Alya’s stomach. “But I’m _tired._ ”

“You’ve been tired for two hours,” Adrien points out.

Marinette shoots him a half-hearted glare, poking him with her toe. “You’re supposed to be on my side.”

Adrien rocks his leg, his knee deliberately bumping against her foot. “I’m on whichever side gets you to do a solo.”

Her bottom lip juts out, and Adrien adds that to his list of things he didn’t expect from Marinette Dupain-Cheng. She _pouts._ “But I don’t wanna.”

“But you gotta, Marinette.” Nino sits up, grinning at her from the floor. “It’s for the people.”

“This is _peer pressure._ ”

“Only if it’s working.”

Marinette throws a pillow at Nino’s head, but gets up anyway. She stretches, lifting her arms above her head and lacing her fingers together. The sweater she wears rides up, but not enough to expose any skin. She drops her arms with a sigh, and bends down to grab Nino’s phone. After a few seconds of typing and swiping, another video pops up on the screen.

As soon as the song starts, Marinette gets into the zone. Alya and Nino wolf whistle and cheer, but none of it seems to register to her. She toes the line between cool and sultry during the opening, swaying to the beat in a way that looks thoughtless. She sings to them, leaning down into Alya’s space, the journalist tipping forward until they’re only breaths apart. “ _’Cause I felt this deep connection, when you looked in my eyes…_ ” Alya mouths the background vocals, drawing a breathless laugh from the performer. “ _Now I can’t wait to see you again._ ” Then Marinette rips away, pivoting on her toes and throwing an arm to the sky as the chorus hits. Both of her hands curl around the lotion bottle she uses as a microphone, and her hips swing a little wider, smile spread a little further.

She commands the room with every move, and Adrien fails to take his eyes off of her. She moves uninhibited, taking playful strides across the confined room, as if it’s a real concert and she’s the main act. She shimmies for Nino, runs her fingers through her hair for Alya, steals Adrien’s breath with a second of eye contact.

He knows for a fact that she’s clumsy as hell, but you would never guess that, watching her now. She looks like a dancer, aware of the space around her and using it all to her advantage. No matter how wildly she swings her hair, or how wide her moves are, she never hits anything or anyone without meaning to. Part of him wants to believe she knows exactly what she’s doing, but the larger part of him knows she’s just having fun.

She slows to a near stop as the beat quiets, strands of hair stuck to her forehead, eyes shining with joy. “ _I got my sight set on you, and I’m ready to aim…_ ”

As focused as he is on her, he isn’t expecting her to jump onto the couch beside him. She lifts onto her knees, her stomach nearly pressed to his arm. “ _The last time I freaked out,_ ” she sings to him, punctuated with a flip of her hair, “ _I just kept lookin’ down! I st-st-stuttered when you asked me what I’m thinking ‘bout!_ ” She dances in place, dedicating the tail end of the song to him. Her hand lands on his shoulder to steady herself, and it does nothing to hinder her performance.

When there are no words left to the song, and just a few seconds of instrumental, her predatory act drops, and she bursts into a fit of laughter. Adrien doesn’t even realize he’s laughing, too, but she’s leaning against him, and the sheen of sweat across her skin makes her glow, and he doesn’t even think to gauge Nino and Alya’s reactions.

The Marinette that moves like that, jokes like that, _laughs_ like that _—_ that’s a Marinette he’s never met before tonight. He wonders if it’s the Marinette that used to come out all the time, and if, somehow, he can bring that back.

The _maybe_ turns into _definitely_ , and determination fills him like a well.

Chat Noir broke Marinette, but maybe  _—_ _maybe_ _—_ Adrien can fix her.

* * *

 “ _Sometimes, I walk a little faster in the school hallways, just to get next to you! Some days, I spend a little extra time in the morning, just to impress you!_ ”

Adrien’s debut isn’t much of a solo. Considering he goes into it without knowing the words, melody, or theme, it would be a lot like giving a fourteen-year-old boy a ring containing a small godlike creature and superpowers, with absolutely no explanation. _Survivable_ , but equally inadvisable.

Nino sings along with him, while Marinette guitars, and Alya claps along. He’s gotten a fair hang of things, to the point where he has no reservations going into the song. He splits his time between silently serenading Nino, and doing a little dance that sort of goes with the words.

If it’s just the _Hare Hare Yukai_ dance, paced to fit the song, that’s his business.

He saunters closer to Marinette, and she meets his eyes with laughter in her eyes. Though he mouths along to the right cadence, he doesn’t say the right words, which makes the whole thing a little funnier. “ _You don’t even know me, guess you don’t need me, why you’re not seein’ what you’re missing? On the outside shyin’ away… on the inside dyin’ to say…!_ ”

Twisting around, he throws his heart into the chorus. He can hear Alya’s laugh over the music, and it only eggs him on more, making every bounce of his hip more pronounced.

When the music quiets a little, he flows with it, throwing a glance to the lyrics on the screen. “ _If you only knew the real me, I might even be a rock star. Now I’m tellin’ you that we are meant to be, wouldn’t it be nice if you could see that I really am a rockstar!_ ”

Nino’s back presses against his, and all four of them dissolve into guitar solos. The chorus starts up again, and they _sing_ , loud and unabashed.

* * *

 Marinette’s mom comes up five minutes later to tell them it’s time to quiet down, and they obediently do so.

Blankets and pillows are pulled out and spread across the floor after that. They moved the table and seating off to the side at the beginning of the night, leaving a bit of space for them to sleep, but not enough for all of them. Nino and Alya take the floor, and Marinette and Adrien camp out on opposite ends of the L-couch.

They watch Hannah Montana on Adrien’s Amazon Prime account, and he’s embarrassingly _riveted._ It’s obvious that the show is old, if only by the camera and transition quality, but Adrien finds himself hooked, as if it’s a brand new show. To him, it _is._ The humor leaves much to be desired, and the plot isn’t that great, either, but this is what everyone else his age grew up watching.

Nino is the only person even remotely as entranced as he is. He laughs at every bad joke, quotes entire scenes until Alya smacks his shoulder, and rarely looks away from the screen. His enthusiasm makes Adrien feel less alienated, because _at least_ the two of them look like giggling idiots together.

Marinette disappears for a while to go to her room, taking Alya’s bag up with her. Adrien’s eyes follow her as she leaves, but he’s quick to forget about her departure, drawn back into the mess that is Oliver’s crush on Hannah.

When Marinette reappears, the episode is almost over. She curls back up on the shorter end of the couch, her eyelids drooping already. Adrien glances over at her once more, when the next episode is buffering, and she’s already fast asleep.

It’s cliché and overplayed to say that someone looks lighter or more innocent when they sleep, and maybe that’s why she _doesn’t._ She doesn’t look any less scarred with her eyes closed, because nothing is ever going to change what she’s been through.

But she looks just as light as she did all night. Those lines etched into her forehead have disappeared, along with the slight furrow of her brows. Her breathing is easy, a little less pained than usual. She doesn’t look less scarred or purer, but she does look like she’s _resting._

“Thank _God._ ” Alya’s murmur pulls his attention away from Marinette, and he sees the reporter looking at her, too. She crawls from under the covers beside Nino, standing to make her way over. Careful hands pull the cover up over Marinette, and she gently brushes hair out of her face. With a heavy, relieved sigh, she steps back, dropping back onto the ground. “I was scared she’d never fall asleep.”

Nino’s phone lights up, and he squints at the screen, glasses abandoned. “It’s about midnight. Think she’ll sleep through the night?”

Alya takes her lower lip between her teeth, an uncharacteristically hesitant tic for her, then shrugs. “I don’t know. We haven’t done one of these since the accident. It might’ve tired her out enough to keep her down, but…”

“Accident?” Both pairs of eyes snap to him, as if they’d forgotten he was there. “Is that the same blackout you mentioned earlier, Nino?” Alya throws a glare at her boyfriend, and Nino winces with the guilt of saying too much. Adrien ignores them both, playing up his ignorance. “I was out of town, but I remember reading some stuff about it. All of the power in town went out and Hawkmoth sent out a bunch of akumas, right?" It's disgustingly  _easy_ to play dumb. As if he weren't a part of it. As if he could ever forget it. He frowns. "Did something happen to Marinette?”

They exchange unreadable glances, and _—_ really. It’s not that he wants to hear the story from him. He knows far better than they do what happened, but he wants to know _what_ they know. How much would Marinette have told them? And her parents? The rest of her friends?

But if you were to ask him _why_ he wants to know, he wouldn’t be able to tell you anymore.

Sitting up, Nino’s shoulders drop slightly. “Yeah, something happened, dude. But… I don’t think we should be the ones to tell you? Like. Obviously, I _want_ you to know. You’re her friend, too, and it’s a big deal, but…”

“It’s not your story to tell.” Adrien nods, filing the thought away for later. “I get it.” He lets his gaze drift back to the girl in question. He doesn’t press any further, knowing well enough that they won’t say anything. He doesn’t need them to.

_I did this._

The knowledge is nothing new, but it still makes him nauseous.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that was long and so much fun to write. i just loved showing a different side to all of them, and ebbing away at the tension presented in the first few chapters?? so i hope you guys enjoyed it too ?? if not, worry not, this is ( probably ) the only chapter that will be dedicated to just one day. please leave a kudo, if you liked it, or a comment, if you want to !!
> 
> next chapter preview—
>
>> “Your sister came by the other day,” Marinette mentions. She says it in an attempt to change the subject, but now that she mentions it. “And Kim and Alix came by the day after that. Max came in a few days ago, and Kim and Alix came in again yesterday.”
>> 
>> “You make wonderful macaroons,” Nath says sagely.
>> 
>> Luka rolls his eyes. “We’ve been taking shifts, hoping to meet the new guy. If we’d known all we had to do was bring Marc, we would have done that a week ago.”

**Author's Note:**

> “great, another villain chat au.” i know, i know. but i promise this has its share of twists and stuff. and i know this chapter was very somber, and the first three will be like this, with a few happy moments sprinkled in between. but fear not, things start to get progressively happier, and the sexual tension starts to build eventually.
> 
> i’m thinking i’ll update once a week? i have the first four and a half chapters written out and i want to keep that same bit of distance, just to give me that cushion, in case i get struck by writer's block. and because i know how aggravating it can be to wait, this is the shortest chapter of the story, so yeah. long wait means long chapters. this story's been in my head for a long time, so i don't wanna just give up on it or fall into another hiatus because i don't have anything written. (and will i ever update my other fics? the world may never know)
> 
> anywho. i hope you guys enjoyed chapter one, feel free to hit me up on tumblr @ princzvkos


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